Price 25ct 



THE 


f Devil’8 Daughter, 

BY 

Robt Edgar l^ufsey. 


“And so it came about, that the Devil be- 
came the father of a daug-hter ; thoug-h the king- 
had her killed immediately after birth; but her 
soul still lives, and the devil calls her Zeldee.” 


PZ 3 

.L9685 

^ BRIDGIERS 5c Z-URSEV, 

COPY 1 PUBIylSHERS, 

Salisbvirjr, ST. C- 


Tnth Job Print, Salisbury, N. C. 


/ 







I 


THE 

DEVIL’S Dauchter, 

. BY 

Robt Edgar Liifsey. 


“And so it came about, that the Devil be- 
came the father of a daughter ; though the king 
had her killed immediately after birth; but her 
soul still lives, and the devil calls her Zeldee.” 


BRIDGETS Sc I-'U'r'SE'Sr. 
PUBLISHERS, 
Salisb-u.ry, U- C- 





\ 2B«4 

Copyrig-ht, 1898, 
by 

Whitney IvUTher Bridgers and Robert Edgar Eufsey. 





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(( Abu-^ tSB ; 

vs. A I-VV* A' 


of 




J^copjeis licisWl ' 


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COISTTENTS 


PART ONE. 

The Living Dead. 

PAGE. 

Chapter I. — A Stormy Nig-ht, - - - 7 

“ II. — Marcus Anthoin, - - - - 11 

“ III. — The Story Beg’ins, - - - 16 

“ IV. — The Devil’s Pit, - - - 22 

“ V. — The Rush of Souls, - - - 27 

“ VI.— Hades, - - - - - 33 

“ VII.— Zeldee, 37 

“ VIII. — Interlocution, - - - 46 

PART TWO. 

Zeldee’s Revenge. 

“ I. — From Out the Noose, - - - 50 

“ II. — Woman’s love and Woman’s wits, 55 
“ III.— A Royal Flush, - - - 64 

“ IV. — A Voice in the Dark, - - 69 

V. — The Comedy of Hearts, - - 73 

“ VI. — The Play goes on, - - - 86 

“ VH. — In Zeldee’s Power, - - 92 

PART THREE. 

The Phieosopher’s Stone. 

“ I. — The American’s Palace, - - 96 

“ H. — The Daug-hter of Merideth Kline, 104 
“ HI.— Fun and Folly, - - - 109 

“ IV. — Retribution, - . - - 113 

“ V. — Lost, The Philosopher’s Stone, 117 
“ VI. — Saved From the Pit, - - 122 

PART FOUR. 

Two yEARS After. ^ 

“ The Death of Marcus Anthoin, - 131 

“ Zeldee, the Devil’s Daug-hter, - - 136 


PUBLISHERS’ NOTE. 


Being- aware of several errors in this, the first 
edition of Zeldee, and not wishing- to enumerate 
them, as some of our readers may overlook them, if 
we do not, we respectfully ask those, who are 
capable of finding the errors, to correct them for 
themselves; and to those, who do not find them, 
there is no harm done. The Publisheks. 


PRE]B"^CE 


There is a class of people, supposed to be reli- 
g’ious, who hold the name of “Devil” in reverence 
and awe; but, who would not hesitate to tell a joke 
in which the name of God was lightly used. These 
people will place their hands before their faces and 
cry, “For shame,” if they should chance to read 
“Zeldee.” 

This same class of people, and most of them 
are women, old fogies who delight in getting to- 
gether and defaming their lady friends, and who 
usually tell some very questionable jokes before 
separating at which all laugh heartily, will be 
shocked at what they will term, “The Indecencies 
of the Story.” To these people I wish to say a few 
words: “Kvil is evil to him that evil thinketh.” 
If you can not read of Zeldee, and the other char- 
acters of my story without having unclean thoughts 
take the advice of the author and never read your 
Bible, only, when some friend, who is more pure in 
mind than you, has obliterated several passages, 
chapters and even books, that to read them would 
make you sin.” 

And now a few words to my intelligent readers. 
I have changed the alleged power of the mythical 
Philosopher’s Stone to suit my story. I have made 


6 ZEI^DEE, the devie’s daughter. 

two of my characters remarkable hypnotists; I have 
displayed United States senators as sharpers; and I 
have, perhaps, over-drawn the picture of the Ameri- 
can, who prefered France to his own country; but it 
has all been done to add interest. I have intro- 
duced sophistical reasoning' for effect, only; but as 
to the repeated use or transmig-ration of souls, the 
belief in this is being adopted by some of the brain- 
iest men of to-day. So would pigmies, like you and 
I, dare to say it is not true? 

Robt. Edgar Lufsey. 


Salisbury, N, C., June, 1898, 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DADGHTER 


I 


PART ONE. 

THE LIVING DEAD. 

CHAPTER 1. 

JL UiaKT- 

“My stars! what a night,” said the doctor, 
shivering and turning up his coat collar so as to 
protect his ears from the cutting wind. “It is a lit 
one for the devil to come forth to cool his parched 
bones and lure unfortunate beings into the warmth 
of his infernal region.” 

“Yes,” replied the preacher, stamping his feet, 
and looking wonderingly at the doctor, as the latter 
was known to be an unbeliever. “It is a rough 
night; but I do not think I’d like to accompan}^ Old 
Nick to his kingdom for all of its warmth.” 

“It couldn’t be much more disagreeable than 
this,” growled the doctor, shoving his hands further 
into his over coat pockets. “Bah! I’m frozen 
through and through.” 

The “Sunny South” had belied its name and 
the snow had fallen all day and was still falling. 
Not in the heavy, large flakes of the morning but 


8 


ZEI.DEE, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 


in blinding- sheets of fine mist, driven along by the 
fierce wind that had now shifted to the North, and 
seemed to come direct from the “North Pole.” 
There were few living beings on the Birmingham 
streets; the hackmen had disappeared and their 
hacks and horses with them; the boot-blacks and 
news-boys were gone with their cries of “Shine,” 
and “Evening News,” and even the policeman had 
sought the shelter of neighboring saloons. The 
doctor and preacher alone kept the streets from 
being entirely deserted, that is as far as they could 
see. 

Dr. William Anderson had just arrived on a 
belated train, and he and his friend the Rev. George 
Holland were standing at the corner of Morris 
Avenue and Twentieth street waiting for an electric 
car that would take them within a block of the 
latter’s home. But no car came, for the simple rea- 
son, they had been snow-bound two hours before. 

“Well Doc,” finally said the preacher, no car 
will come, I reckon, so I suppose we will have to put 
up at a hotel or get a hack to take us home.” 

“The hack will be best,” replied the doctor, “as 
your wife will be uneasy if you don’t get home to- 
night.” 

“Yes I expect she will, so come along, there are 
no hacks upon the street, we will have to go to a 
stable.” The preacher led the way, trudging 
through the snow, to the nearest livery stable. But 
alas! no horse would be let to go out on such a 
night. 

“Let us walk,” said the doctor. 

“What, walk two miles in a blizzard like this?”" 
asked Holland, while a shiver ran through his frame 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


9 


at the thought of it. 

The doctor replied, with a laugh, “Why not ? 
it’s rough I admit; but, walking will warm us, and 
besides we can’t spend the night in the street. It 
won't do to go to a hotel either, as your wife will 
be waiting for you; and two stout fellows like you 
and I ought to be able to walk two miles.” 

The preacher yielded reluctantly and the two 
began the disagreeable tramp. Any one, who has 
walked far in a deep snow, knows what they had to 
endure. The distance was only two miles; but it 
seemed ten ere they had gone half the way. Try 
as they would to go fast, they made but slow pro- 
gress. The fierce wind was biting cold and the fine 
snow blinded them so they could scarcely see the 
way. Finally the preacher stopped. 

“lean go no further,” he said, “I am tired out, 
and we have only come half way.” And he puffed 
and blowed; while perspiration dropped from his 
brow, which froze as it fell. 

They were in a solitary part of the town where 
but few houses had been erected, and the one near- 
est them was at least a hundred yards away. The 
doctor had stopped a few paces from his friend, 
and like him, was puffing and blowing like a steam 
engine. 

“That’s the longest mile I ever walked in my 
life. By George, if I believe I can go any further 
either! Suppose we test the hospitality of the peo- 
ple at this house. They can’t well take us for 
tramps and if they do, I don’t think they would 
turn us out in a night like this — and besides, you 
may know them.” 

“I hardly think I know them,” responded his 


10 


ZELDKE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


companion, “but like you I think it best to ask them 
to take us in for the nig-ht. My wife will be very 
anxious I know; but it can’t be helped.” 

Anderson had already started toward the house 
and Holland followed. Trying- the front g'ate they 
found it would not open, owing to the snow being 
banked around it; but, nothing daunted, the two 
men got over the fence, went up the slippery steps 
with care and were about to ring the bell when the 
door was suddenly opened by a woman, apparently 
seventy years of age. She stood there shading 
with one hand a lamp, which she held in the other 
to keep the wind from extinguishing the feeble 
flame. 

“Come in gentlemen,” she said, without wait- 
ing for them to speak. “We’ve been looking for 
you for an hour or more.” 

“Impossible,” said the doctor, who took upon 
himself the part of spokesman, “you make a mis- 
take. We, ourselves, did not know we were com- 
ing here until a few moments ago, when we could 
proceed no further in the wind and snow.” 

“I know you did not know it,” rejoined the 
woman with a slight smile, but I knew it Dr. An- 
derson, and you Mr. Holland, don’t worry about 
your wife she has ceased to worry about you, think- 
ing you must have gone to a hotel. She and your 
little boy, Willie, have retired long before this. So 
come right in my husband is waiting impatiently to 
see you.’ 

The men were startled when their names were 
called. How did this woman, whom they had never 
seen before, know their names? How could she 
speak so positively of Holland’s wife and child? 


ZELDEE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER. 


11 


Surely she could not have been to his home that 
nig'ht. These were their thoug’hts and they were 
about to question her when she repeated, “Come 
rig-ht in my husband is waiting-.” 

Kxchang-hig- a look the men entered; they could 
not remain on the outside in the storm, and the 
woman closed and locked the door. Then holding- 
her dress with one hand and the lamp with the 
other she mounted the stair followed by the be- 
wildered doctor and preacher. 


CHAPTER II. 

2^.a.RCT7S iLITTXXOZZr. 

Shakespeare, perhaps, had fore-seen this time 
when he put the words in the mouth of Hamlet, 
“There are more thing-s in Heaven and Earth, 
Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosphy.” 
Here was a woman with nothing- to disting-uish her, 
in looks, from other withered crones of her ag-e, 
except, a pair of extremely brig-ht eyes, (but such 
eyes, black and piercing-; eyes that seemed to g-o 
throug-h one and read his innermost thoughts) who 
could call men, she had never seen before, by their 
names and tell them of their families. 

Anderson, who was something of a hypnotist, 
experienced a strange sensation when he looked into 
the woman’s eyes, like he supposed his subjects felt 
when being hypnotized, and Holland too felt a chill 
pass over him, a chill different from that caused by 


12 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


the wintery air, when he saw those piercings black 
orbs turned toward his face. 

But these unusual feeling’s did not deter them 
from following her, though they instinctively drew 
closer to each other. At the head of the stairs the 
woman turned to the right and walked along the 
passage a short distance until she came to a door; 
opening this, she said, “Walk in gentleman.” 

At the same time, a thin, squeaking voice call- 
ed from the room, “Come in, come in, don’t stop, 
the hour I have waited seems like an age, and still 
you creep.” The doctor’s face turned pale and the 
preacher’s hair seemed to stand on end; and each 
man took a step backward as though he would run. 
If the woman had witch’s eyes the man had a 
demon’s voice. Noticing their alarm the woman 
laughed — a strange wierd laugh — and said, “Come 
sirs, there is nothing to fear, we may be queer souls, 
but we will not hurt you. Come.” Not daring to 
raise their eyes to hers, the men now followed. In 
the room they found a little, old, weazen-faced 
man lying on a bed in a corner. He was glaring 
at them by the feeble light furnished by the lamp 
the woman had placed on a table in the center of 
room. Glaring at them, we repeat, with a look of 
exultant joy. 

“Oh! you’re here at last,” he began again in 
that same demonish voice, “It seemed you’d never 
come. You see gentlemen I wish to tell you of my 
past life, or, as you may think afterward, of my 
death.” 

The preacher looked more frightened than ever, 
but the doctor had regained his composure; for, he 
thought he saw before him a delirious victim of 


ZKI.DKE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER. 


13 


fever. 

“I see! I see!” he said turning- to the woman, 
“How long- has he beenlike this?” He was startled 
ag-ain and the preacher’s face was livid, for peal 
after peal of laug-hter from both the man and woman 
followed the querr^L Hellish laug-hter, laug-hter 
such as fiends are supposed to laugh over their vic- 
tims; but it ceased as suddenly as it had begun. 

‘ ‘Excuse us, ” said the old man to Anderson, ‘ ‘But, 
just before you came I said to my wife, that, you 
would think I was a deliriously sick man, and want 
to doctor me. I may be sick, but all your medicine 
doctor, would not cure me.” Then noticing their 
alarm he continued, “Don’t be frightened gentle- 
men, several things may seem strange and unnatur- 
al, but after a while you’ll understand why. My 
name is Marcus Anthoin and that is my wife,” 
pointing to the woman. “You are known to us Dr. 
Anderson; Baltimore is not so far away from Bir- 
mingham but that we have heard of you and your 
wonderful cures combined with your powers as a 
hypnotist.” 

“Really sir,” began Anderson, who was feeling 
more at ease as he became accustomed to the man’s 
voice. “You do me — ” 

“Tut! tut!” broke in the old man, “I know 
what you would say, ‘too much honor,’ and all that: 
but its just as I say, we have heard of you, honor or 
no honor. And of you too sir,” turning to Holland, 
•“You are a servant of the Lord, may you prosper in 
y^our work.” As he said this, his voice lost its 
demon’s accent, and dropped into a full, mellow 
tone; only to go back to its high, shrill pitch when 
he opoke again. “You are one of the few he has 


14 


ZELDKE, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 


left. There are many called such, but most of them 
serve mammon instead.” 

A g-runt from the woman followed this speech. 
“You are a fine one to talk on such matters,” she 
said in a sarcastic manner. “Please do not do so 
again, my ears are paining me now.” 

“Then Antonette, you had better go into the 
adjoining room and retire,” said the man Anthoin. 
“If you remain here I am afraid your ears will be 
pained several times. If we need you we will call 
you. 

There was a command in his voice that was 
not implied by his words. The woman colored 
deeply, and seemed to regret the hastily spoken, 
satirical words, but, yet she answered in a quiet 
voice, “Very well Marcus.” And then to the others, 
“If you gentlemen will excuse me I will retire.” 

The doctor and preacher were only too glad to 
have her out of the room and hastened to say so, 
only in a polite way. 

“Gentleman,” said Marcus Anthoin, when his 
wife had left the room, “You must excuse me for 
two things; first, my sending my wife out of the 
room; and second, my troubling you to listen to a 
narrative that does not concern you. My excuse for 
the first is, she was the cause of my debasement, 
and I have been debased gentlemen, oh! more than 
you can imagine, but I did not wish to pain her as 
a true recital of my story might do. Yes doctor,” 
he continued as he noticed Anderson’s eyes turned 
toward the door by which the woman had left. “She 
may listen there and hear what I say, but if she 
does, it is her fault, not mine; and besides she may 
not be as susceptible to pain as I suppose. My ex- 


ZELDKE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


15 


cuse or plea for the second is, the overwhelming- 
burden of a secret.” 

As he talked his voice softened until it sank to 
the full, mellow tones we have before mentioned. 
“If either of you have ever had a g-reat secret, you 
know what a burden it is to the soul. Althoug-h 
my story does not concern you, it will prove inter- 
esting-, and will afford you food for new thoug-ht. 
Still, if you would rather not listen to it, I will re- 
call my wife, and have you shown to a room, where 
you can pass the nig-ht and g-o your way in the 
morning-.” He paused and g-azed wistfully at the 
two men; then as they hesitated he added, “To re- 
lieve my soul of its weig-ht would be raising- it from 
its thrall of deg-radation. With this secret burden- 
ing- my heart, I cannot live a month long-er; but 
with the secret removed I might have a few years 
more on earth.” 

Hesitating no more, the preacher at once an- 
nounced his willingness to listen to the tale; while 
Anderson, who was ever willing to hear anything 
wierd and strange, as he supposed the story would 
be, and who had hesitated only out of deference to 
his friend’s feelings, assured the queer old man that 
nothing would please him more. 

But little did he think what effect that recital 
would have upon his life; and in what way or where 
he would meet the reciter again. 


16 


2KLDEK, the PEVIT’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE STORY EEGIITS. 

The wind blew more fiercely than ever; it rat- 
tled the windows, and howled about the house like 
demons trying- to force an entrance to prevent the 
old man from divulging- his secret. 

The snow beat against the window pains, mak- 
ing a dismal sound; the fire in the grate had burned 
low; and a clock, in another part of the house, had 
just struck the hour of twelve; when Marcus An- 
thoin opened his eyes. He had been lying with 
them closed for five or ten minutes, as though try- 
ing to recall all of the important events of that past 
life, which he was now about to trust to mortal 
ears, for the first time. The two friends had re- 
frained from disturbing his revery, but sat there, 
looking silently at him with something like a pity- 
ing expression upon each face. 

Anthoin raised himself in bed as he opened his 
eyes, and propping himself with a pillow, said, “If 
one of you will be so kind as to replenish the fire,, 
I will begin.” 

Holland arose immediately and filled the grate 
with coal, and, then returned to his seat, sa3fing- as 
he did so, “Very well Mr. Anthoin we are read}- to 
listen.” 

“Yes proceed,” said Anderson, without taking 
his eyes from the old man’s face. 

Settleing himself more comfortably against his 
pillow; and turning his small gray eyes toward his, 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


17 


audience of two, Anthoin began: “Thirty years or 
so ago, a man was seated by the fire in his room, 
listening to the wind howling about the house. 
’Twas just such a night as this, the snow was fall- 
ing, and to add to the dismalness of the night a 
bow of a tree out-side his window kept tapping 
upon the window pane. That man was myself — 
Merideth Kline. I had just passed my twent^^-fifth 
birthday; and having enough of this world’s goods 
to live a life of idleness, I proceeded forth-with to 
do so. Like other young men of that age, I don’t 
mean all 3^oung men, I was a skeptic. Hell to me 
was a myth; the miracles of Christ were illusions; 
the lives of the prophets were traditions, nothing 
more; preachers were hypocrites; and those who 
went to hear them preach were fools. I would have 
liked to have added in my agnosticism, “There is 
no God,” but I could not bring myself to believe 
that. Everything pointed to a Being of Suprem- 
acy. There must have been something to fashion 
this world, and the others we see at night. 

The philospher might write of evolution ; and 
the materialist might talk of the world having ex- 
isted forever, and this earth, a small portion of it, 
being formed by heat; but, call it heat or call it 
God, there was Supremacy somewhere, and because 
my mother had called it so, I chose to call that Su- 
premacy, “God.” 

“My father was a Lutheran minister and had 
a large charge. My mother was a Metheodist be- 
fore her marriage, but united with the Lutheran 
church afterward. She was a good woman, and 
used all the means in her power to bring me up in 
the fear of the Lord and make me a believer in 


18 


ZEI.DKE, the devil’s daughter. 


Christianity; but like many other g-ood people, then 
and now, she made the mistake of confounding- fear 
and love. If God was the kind, loving Father she 
said he was, why should we fear Him ? Thus I 
reasoned, even when a very small child. As to 
Christianity, Wasn’t my father a Christian? And 
yet I couldn’t believe in his piety. He talked very 
nice in the pulpit, but he talked quite differently at 
home. Several times I’d seen him very much under 
the influence of alcoholic drinks; though, at these 
times he kept himself close in his study. Many a 
time when a youngster, I have hidden behind his- 
book-case to listen to his musings, for he had a 
habit of talking aloud to himself, there I would 
hear things which, though I would not repeat, I 
would store away in my mind and ponder over. 

“I learned in this way that he was not con- 
sistant in anything. He believed in a God in a 
vague way; but a life after death, and especially a 
life in a fiery hell, to him was bosh, although his 
best sermons were preached upon this theme. 

“Is it any wonder, then; that as I grew into 
3"oung manhood, I should be a doubter ? 

“I studied law, and succeeded fairly well in 
my profession. Besides being an agnostic and a 
lawyer, I was nearly a woman hater. I see you 
smile. It was the same old story of ‘blue eyes and 
sunny curls;’ a few short hours of happy love and 
then she loved another. I never cared for woman’s 
society after that — except my mother’s; but she died 
soon after. My father had died two years before. 

“After her death I occupied the old house that 
had come to me by inheritance. And this brings 
me back to the point where I started, when I sat in 


ZKIvDKE, the devie’s daughter. 


19 


my room on such a nig-ht as this, and listened to 
the wind, the snow and the old dead branch tapping* 
upon the window. Doctor will you please hand 
me that coug*h medicine that is on the mantle? I 
am getting hoarse.” 

Anderson got the medicine for Anthoin, who 
thanked him and continued with his story. 

“Tap, tap. I can almost here that old branch 
tapping at the window now. Tap, tap. I was 
reading Kdgar Allen Poe’s poem, ‘The Raven.’ I 
could almost recite it from memory, but still I was 
reading it, as I often did. It seemed to appeal 
more to my feelings when reading it, than when 
reciting it. When I came to the lines, 

“Surely,’ said I. ‘Surely that is 
Something at my window lattice.’ ’ 

“I half arose from my chair to go to my window, 
to see if a raven was tapping there or not; but, 
‘No,’ said I, ‘It is that old, dead branch.’ And so I 
went on with the poem, and dwelt musingly on the 
lines, 

‘On the morrow he will leave me 
As my friends have done before.’ 

You see I had a meloncholy disposition, and liked 
anything with a sad thought expressed. I read the 
poem to the end; and then leaned back in my chair 
to think of what is contained in the word ‘Never- 
more.’ Ah! what a word, even to me, now that I 
know it is almost meaningless, it seems full of 
pain. 

“How long I sat there I do not know. It 
seemed as though I slept; yet, all the time I heard 
that old branch, beating a sad refrain upon the win- 
dow; and the wind howling mournfully about the 


20 


ZELDKE, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 


house. I had a dream and in that dream I saw a 
woman. She came and stood before me, in the room 
where I was sitting-; for I was still conscious of 
where I was. She had a small jeweled spear in her 
hand which she shook playfully at me, saying- as 
she did so, ‘You are mine, do you know that? 
Merideth I say you are mine.’ And then she 
laug-hed a peculiar laug-h. ‘Do you know what 
love is?’ she continued. ‘Yes, I know you do; but 
you will soon forg-et, that is, that other love. You 
will learn to love me as I love you. Did you know 
I loved you? I am as pretty as that other, am I 
not ? Her weak, blue eyes and lig-ht colorless hair 
can’t compare with my eyes and hair.’ And indeed 
they could not. Such hair as hers I had never seen 
before, as I could remember: black and full a yard 
long-, falling- over her shoulders — bare shoulders, 
gleaming- white in the fire-light. Her only dress 
was a bit of white material, almost transparent, 
fastened around the waist and hanging only half way 
to her knees. Her hands and feet were small, 
‘Dainty hands and feet,’ a poet would have called 
them. Her perfectly formed limbs were smooth and 
white as alabaster. Her face was perfect in ever}’ 
feature, from her intellectual forehead to her beau- 
tifully molded chin. Such a face a man is not likely 
to forget, but I forgot it as soon as I awoke, only 
her eyes remained clear of all her beauty — her love- 
ly hair, her marble like brow, her ruby lips and 
pearly teeth, her swan like breast, her tiny hands, 
with the jewel spear, her graceful limbs and sculp- 
tured feet, all, were forgotten. Her eyes alone re- 
mained. You’ve seen those eyes to-night gentle- 
men; but not as I saw them then; eyes as black as 


ZEIvDKK, THE devil’s daughter. 21 

the blackest nig-ht; eyes that pierced into my brain; 
e3’^es that seemed to laug-h and talk and dance; e^^es 
that held me spell-bound. I could still hear her 
voice, thoug^h, with its musical cadence, not that it 
was always musical; she was sa}ring-, ‘You are mine 
I say; if not you shall be;’ and other thing's similar 
to that. When I awoke the fire had burned out 
and the lig-ht was g-etting- low. I retired and tried 
to sleep; but for a long* time I could not. Those 
black eyes haunted me; finally I dropped into un- 
easy slumber, and then ag'ain I saw that woman, 
and trembled in my sleep. As before her eyes out- 
weig'hed the other charms; and she seemed to know 
it, and made them sink deeper and deeper into my 
brain. I never have been the same since that 
nig'ht. Throug'h all these years those e^^es have 
been before me. Go where I would I seemed to be 
following- those eyes. Thej^ were not alwa^^s the 
same; some times, instead of being black, they were 
blue, or g'ra}^ or brown; sometimes they were soft, 
laughing eyes; then again they were cold, stern 
ones; but they have always had the power, until 
tonight, to make me come or go as their owner 
wished. How I have escaped from their influence 
you shall hear after awhile. Thus you see m\' 
whole life has been wrecked by a dream. 

“Dreams are what wis2-acres call, ‘passing 
thoughts.’ Dreams are what you and others laug'h 
at, as fancies of the brain. Dreams are what 
philosophers say, ‘Is the mind unburdening itself.’ 
Wrong, all of 3"ou are wrong. A dream is the soul 
being awake, while the body sleeps. You ma3" as 
well tell me, that, ‘The bee is not working because 
the hive does not move,’ as to tell me, ‘Dreams are 


22 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


not realities because the body sleeps/ Have you 
ever in your dreams, seen places that seem perfect- 
ly familiar ? You remember the dream when you 
awake, but cannot remember when or where you 
ever saw that place, and yet, you have seen it, at 
least, your soul has, and in your dream it goes back 
to it again. The soul can see the past, the present 
and the future. It is what the soul sees and does 
that we call dreams.” 

Anderson and Holland were interested, and ask- 
ed many questions concerning dreams, to which the 
old man replied, proving by his answers that dreams 
belong to the soul. It was an old subject with him, 
and although the two friends tried to trap him on 
some of his answers; they failed to do so. 

If the man was a lunatic as they thought at 
times; he was one that was more than a match for 
them in an argument — on dreams any-way. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE 3DEVII-’’S PIT. 

“Continue with your story” said Anderson. 
“I am anxious to hear more of it.” Holland drew 
his chair nearer the fire, nodding to Anthoin as he 
did so, “Yes, go on with your tale. Tell us more 
about those wonderful eyes.” 

“There is so much I could tell,” responded he, 
“That I hardly know what to tell. But I’ll pass 
over two years — years of torture; for those e)’'es 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK. 


23 


were ever before me, nearly making- me craz3^ i 
could scarcely sleep; and when I did, there was that 
beautiful creature with her maddening- e3'es; and 
she was always telling- me how she loved me; until, 
instead of loving- her as she said I would, I abhored 
her. “I lost my appetite, barely eating- enoug-h to 
keep alive. I beg-an to decrease in weig-ht until I 
was but a shadow of my former self. Of course I 
consulted a doctor; but I was ashamed to tell him 
of my vision, as I chose to call the woman of my 
dreams, so he was left in ig-norance of the root of 
my disease. He no doubt attributed it to dissipa- 
tion; and advised me to leave home and travel 
abroad for awhile. Sending- me from wild associ- 
ates I suppose he thoug-ht. I took his advice how- 
ever, and left home. I never returned. 

One nig-ht I was sitting- in the common room 
of a hotel in a small villag-e in Austria, I had been 
there a week for I liked the place, there bein^ sev- 
eral Kng-lish speaking- people there, when I heard 
some one mention a pit known as the ‘Devil’s Pit,’ 
into which no one could look without having- a de- 
sire— an almost uncontrolable desire— to throw him- 
self into it. It was not far from there, they said. 
Other travelers besides myself, were stopping- at 
the hotel; and a party was quickly formed to visit 
the pit on the following- day. Two g^uides were 
secured, one of whom could speak Bng-lish and the 
other French, as there was to be both French and 
Fng-lish in the party. 

“On the following- morning we started earl^^ 
for our rough tramp in the mountains. But little 
did I think, that, after I saw the ‘Devil’s Pit,’ Meri- 
deth Kline would be known on earth no more. 


24 


ZKIvDEE, the DEVIE’S daughter. 


“I felt remarkably well that day; thenig'lit be- 
fore being- the only night, for over two years, that 
I had passed without a dream. Those eyes had 
ceased to haunt me as soon as I retired the evening 
before, and I slept a sound peaceful sleep all 
through the night. My companions that morning 
were in high spirits, laughing and joking as we 
marched along; and I joined with them, which sur- 
prised them somewhat I suppose; for during the 
short stay I had made in the town I had been ver}’ 
morose. But now it was different. Those lovely, 
though distracting eyes, had not returned with the 
morning; and I felt like a man escaped from prison: 

I felt free; but, oh! so afraid of being fettered 
again. Determining to make the best of an}" 
liberty, however, I chatted merrily with the rest. 

“ ‘Well Balto,’ said one of my companions to 
our guide who spoke English, ‘We want to know 
if this Devil’s Pit is very deep and if it has a lake 
at the bottom, burning with fire and brimstone?’ 

“ ‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed a Frenchman. ‘If his 
Satanic majesty is at the bottom of the pit, I don’t 
want to go too near it.’ 

“ ‘Oh! Frenchy, Frenchy,’ cried a gay, rollick- 
ing Englishman, g'iving him the appellation ap- 
plied to so many Frenchmen. ‘I should have 
thought you was an infidel. Most of your country- 
men are.’ 

“ ‘That is a great mistake,’ replied the other. 
‘The most of us may be skeptics, but not infidels, 
as you mean, atheist. Some Frenchmen are, I am 
sorry to say; but I am not. I am confident there is 
a God. Have I not seen His works here and else- 
where? ’ And he looked about over the surround- 


ZELDEE, the DEVIE’vS DAUGHTER. 


25 


ing- country. 

“I took it upon myself to answer. ‘Undoubt- 
ly it is God’s work; but, do you also believe in a 
devil ? ’ 

“ ‘Certainly,’ and he looked surprised. ‘To 
believe in one is to believe in the other.’ 

“ ‘Neg-atoire,’ I said. ‘Now I believe in a su- 
preme being- , God; but in the other I do not. The 
devil’s a myth and hell’s a fraud. But Balto hasn’t 
answered our friends’ questions. Is the pit deep; 
is there lire at the bottom; and, can you hear the 
clank of the devil’s chains? Kh, Balto?’ 

“I heard him reply, that, the pit was very 
deep; that he’d never heard of any fire in it; and 
that, if the devil was there, the rattle of his chains 
could not be heard; but it sounded to me, as thoug-h 
he was a long- way off; for those tormenting- eyes 
had returned with ten-fold power exactly at the 
moment I had said, ‘The devil’s a myth and hell’s a 
fraud.’ 

“I needed no g-uide now; those eyes were g-uides 
enoug-h. They served to lead me irresistibly for- 
ward ; as I advanced they retreated, I soon took 
the lead of the party. My actions appeared strang-e 
to my companions I know, I heard them comment- 
ing- upon them; but I had lost my power of speech 
soon after those eyes returned. But would I have 
explained if I could have spoken ? I doubt it. For 
who likes to display their infirmities to mortal 
eyes ? I looked then upon those vision eyes as an 
infirmity. 

“The day had lost all charm for me. The 
brig-ht, blue sky, the distant mountain peaks so 
dazzling- white as the sun shone upon their snowy 


26 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


crest; the hug-e boulders that here and there over- 
hung- the mountain road on which we traveled; the 
hardy, little mountain song-sters warbling- their 
lays as they flew past or calling- to their mates in 
the shrubbery; the vultures and the noble eag-le 
soaring far above us; were unnoticed by me then, 
although I had admired them so much before. 
Nothing but those eyes were visible. I walked as 
one who slept. On and on, following those eyes; 
on and on, over the rough mountain road; and leav- 
ing that behind, on and on, up a steep mountain path 
— climbing and scrambling; onward and upward. 
Finally immerging on a small plateau I turned to 
my left, because the eyes did so. I had been get- 
ting farther ahejjd of my companions all the time. 
I realized it; but what mattered that, if I kept up 
with the eyes that led me? 

“I was half way across the plateau when my 
friends arrived upon it. In a vague way I knew 
they were calling me, and running after me at full 
speed; but at the same time I was seized with an 
uncontrollable desire to catch those eyes or the 
owner of them and began to run also, increasing 
my speed to my uttermost. Once I tripped and fell 
and when I regained my feet my pursuers were near- 
ly up with me, and those eyes were farther away; 
then I ran faster than ever. I heard my friend call, 
‘Stop! stop!’ and the guide cry, ‘The Devil’s Pit 
sir! the Devil’s Pit!’ but faster I ran. Then the 
eyes vanished. I was in space, falling, falling. 
The eyes were gone and I was lost. I realized it, 
and grasped wildly at the rocks as I flew by. 
’Twas the Devil’s Pit I knew. The devil had claim- 
ed his victim at last; and I was the victim. 


ZKLDKE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER. 


27 


CHAPTER V. 

THE RTTSK OE SOT7I-S- 

“Did you ever dream of falling-, and, then, 
when you struck the earth, which you thoug-ht 
would be the end of you, be surprised that you still 
lived and then continue to dream ? If you have, 
you no doubt have an idea of how I felt while fall- 
ing- into the Devil’s Pit. 

“Down, down, down, g-aining- velocity at every 
moment. I could see the hard, smooth bottom; I 
closed my eyes; and then I struck; but I felt no 
pain. I beg-an to rise out of the pit. I was not 
flying- for I had no wing-s; and yet I was rising-, I 
was resting- on nothing-, I seemed as lig-ht as air. 
Upon reaching- the surface of the earth I saw my 
friends g-azing- into the depths below, and heard 
one of them say, ‘Poor felow, he must have g-one 
crazy,’ and another added, ‘I never have thoug-ht he 
was exactly rig-ht.’ I knew they thoug-ht my 
actions were strang-e so did not take offence at what 
they said. I spoke kindly to them, and told them 
that I was not dead, but they appeared not to see 
or hear me. I was a litttle piqued at this. Then 
it slowly dawned upon me that I was dead, at least 
my body was, and this was my soul; that I could 
see and hear them, but they could not see or hear 
me. I looked back into the pit, and there was the 
form of a man lying- at the bottom. I had no 
doubt that it was my body. Another thing- that 
surprised me was, that before my fall I could not 


28 


ZELDKK, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTEK, 


understand the Frenchmen or Austrians when 
speaking- in their native tong-ues; but now I could, 
not only understand, but could speak in either of 
them. Just then I heard a sound, like one often 
hears before a mig-hty wind reaches us. Before 
this it seemed as though I was waiting for some- 
thing, I did not know what; now I seemed to 
know, that what caused this noise, was what I was 
waiting for. Suddenly I began to move, from no 
exertion or will of mine, gradually at first and 
then faster and faster. The last I saw of my 
late companions was, when they were slowly turn- 
ing away from the Devil’s Pit. I watched them 
as I swept along until they appeared to be mere 
specks in the distance; and then faded from view. 

“I was not touching the earth; but like a 
feather, was carried through the air a few yards 
above; sometimes rising to pass a mountain, then 
dipping down into a valley; always speeding on- 
ward. I did not feel frightened; I remembered hav- 
ing gone through it all several times before. I 
was no agnostic then, I surmised nothing, I knew 
it all. I remembered the first time I had made that 
journey, when Cain had killed my body, and my soul 
had rushed on not knowing whither it went. Abel 
had been the name of my mortal frame; but what 
would be the name of my soul? And oh ! how frighten- 
ed I had been. I laughed then as I thought of it. I 
remembered all of the bodies I had inhabited; and 
knew I had power to resemble any of them or be a 
composite of several. I also knew I had power to 
speak and understand any language, as I had done 
several times. I knew again that, when the soul 
dies as it sometimes does; for God has said, ‘The 


ZElvDEK, the DEVIE’S daughter. 


29 


soul that sinneth, it shall die,’ it would have no 
power whatever, but would go to hell, and have to 
remain there ever-more; but as long as the soul 
lived it would be given a new body, and have an- 
other season on earth, and that it would have lo re- 
main in the body except when the body slept, and 
then it was permitted to roam about, and leave it 
until the body awoke. 

“You gentlemen do not understand these 
things, but I will answer any questions concerning 
them that 3"ou may ask, after I am through with my 
narrative. 

“Well, to proceed. My soul continued to in- 
crease in speed until it reached the main channel 
of souls, this is the channel that leads to the other 
world as you call it. There I went bowling along 
at I dare say several hundred miles an hour. There 
were many other souls in the channel besides myself 
— weak, puny souls, that I knew were dead and mak- 
ing the journey for the last time; there were good 
souls and bad souls, what I mean by bad souls, are 
those who were cut off by accident, before their 
alotted time on earth, cut off in their sinfulness. 
I was of these. The farther I traveled the more 
souls there were, jostling and crowding each other; 
pushing and shoving; rolling and tossing; each one 
drawn along by that irresistible power. 

“Over the mountains, we went and through 
the valleys; sweeping through village or town or 
city; on through Vienna’s streets, catching but a 
glimpse of its bustle as we passed; on and on with- 
out a stop, without a stay, on ! on ! on ! Leaving 
Austria behind we rushed through Bavaria, Wur- 
tenburg, Baden and Alsace; through city and vale.. 


30 ZKLDBK, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 

Thence over France; throug-h the proud city Paris; 
on to the coast; and then out over the wide expanse 
of water. Rushing-, whirring and whizzing; cleav- 
ing- the salt sea air. Suddenly there was a pause 
and then I began to rise or fall, I could scarcely 
tell which, with a rapid movement. Then another 
pause and forward I moved ag-ain.” 

“Did the other souls move forward with you?” 
asked Anderson, who was very much interested in 
the tale. 

“I know not,” replied Anthoin. “For it had 
suddenly become dark as nig-ht, and I felt alone. 
The power, that had drawn me on, influenced me 
no more. I knew where I was, but it was awful 
to be there alone. It was the ‘Valley and the 
Shadow of Death.’ 

“Souls have passed and repassed, but never a 
path has been found there. A trackless waste; a 
desert bare; a soundless space: no song of g-ladness; 
no word of cheer; no hope; no joy; faith nearly 
g-one; fear, nothing- but fear; lost, lost, lost; that 
is the way the soul feels until it sees the beacon 
light, away, in the distance. First a tiny spark 
appears which becomes brighter and larg-er, broader 
and g-rander, until the g-reat search ray reaches the 
soul. Then hope returns. 

“I went toward the light as I had done so 
many times before; for I knew it was a safe guide, 
that would not err. But if I, who was still alive 
and vigorous, felt the desolation of the place so 
keenly, what must have been the feelings of those 
dead souls, passing through the darkness for the 
last time; passing never to return, knowing as they 
most surely did, that when they passed the gates 


ZKLDEK, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 


31 


of hell, those gates would never open to set them 
free again. I — ” 

“One moment,” interrupted Holland. “What 
do you mean by ‘Those gates would never open to 
set them free again’ ? Are not those gates, once 
closed upon a soul, closed forever?” 

“No indeed Mr. Holland,” replied Anthoin. . 
“I know it is so taught by preachers, who claim to 
understand the word of God, but it is not so. The 
soul that is dead remains in hell forever; but there 
are souls there who* have been deprived of their 
bodies while yet alive, who when their turn comes 
will be sent back to earth to inhabit another 
body.” 

“Then theosophy is true ?” 

“Not at all. Theosophy is the basest kind of 
superstition. Souls • are used for several bodies, 
but cannot converse with other souls while inmates 
of those bodies. Monte-banks, street-fakers and 
other would-be-attracters-of-public-attention claim 
a belief in theosophy, and claim their ability to 
talk with spirits; but like all faker’s tricks, it is a 
fraud.” 

“Then if souls are used repeatedly, why is it 
that we cannot remember what our other bodies 
did, and what has happened to the soul, as you re- 
member what has happened to yours ?” 

“Because you think with your brain, and as it 
did not belong to the other bodies, you remember 
nothing of them or of the Spirit-land. Some- 
times you remember them in your dreams when 
vour bodily mind is asleep and your spiritual mind 

*It will be noticed that 1 have used the pronoun “that,” 
for the dead souL and “who,” for the living. — Author. 


32 


ZKI.DEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


is awake, and it photographs itself upon the sleep- 
ing- mind; but when you awake, you say, ‘It’s noth- 
ing- but a dream,’ and you believe it not. 

“Then how is it you remember ?” asked the 
doctor. 

“My bodily mind is dead. I’ll tell you of that 
after awhile, and I do my thinking- with the mind 
of my soul. I broke away from the soul’s home 
and returned to earth without being- commanded. 
That will be explained as my story proceeds.” 

“Do souls have forms?” 

“Yes. But they are invisible to mortal eyes. 
A soul can chang-e its form, that is, when out of 
the body, to the imag^e of any of the bodies it has 
ever had, or to a compound of several of them, but 
still it is invisible. This is a leng-thy subject that 
could be discussed for hours; but the night is pass- 
ing and if I wish to finish my story I must proceed. 
Some other time perhaps we will meet and discuss 
this subject.” 

“Go on by all means,” said the doctor. “Tell 
us if you reached that beaconlight; but say! Wasn’t 
it on the spirit land?” 

“You have guessed correctly. For passing 
through the Valley and Shadow of Death, I reach- 
ed the guiding light, and found myself at the 
mouth of Hades, or upon the Spirit shore.” 


ZELDEE, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 


33 


CHAPTER VI. 

“In Roman mytholog’y, Hades is said to be a 
larg-e cave, where-in, all departed spirits dwell; the 
g-ood ones on the right, and the bad ones on the left. 
The idea has been hooted at by philosophers; atheists 
have said it was ridiculous; while believers in God, 
men who preach the gospel, have laughed at it and 
have claimed it was not orthodox enough for them. 
And yet this sentiment is more correct, than most 
beliefs upon the matter. 

“On the farther border of the Valley and 
Shadow of Death there arises a perpendicular wall 
of rock, extending to right and left, losing itself 
on all sides in the darkness. The top is never seen 
— or the bottom either for that matter. There is 
an opening in the wall like the mouth of a cave; 
and in front of this opening is a ledge of rock 
where weary souls can rest before entering there 
old, yet new abode. Over the entrance are letters, 
formed of flaming jewels, spelling the word, 
‘hades.’ 

“Above this word hangs the beacon-light, 
sending its rays streaming through the darkness 
like an electric search-light. At the entrance 
stands the warden-angel, who, to every one who 
arrives, gives a permit, or passport, to enter 
Hades and on to the home of the soul; good or bad. 
The permit reveals, at once, the destiny of the 
soul. Very few need it revealed, however, for 


34 


ZKLDEE, the DEVIE^S DAUGHTER. 


each one g-enerally knows where he deserves to g-o; 
and knows he will certainly go where he deserves. 
But there are some of the dead souls who try to 
blind themselves to the fact that they are going to 
hell; and when they get their passport they scan 
it minutely as though in hopes of it being a per- 
mit to enter heaven; but when they read it and 
find it is hell for which they are bound, some try 
to break past the sentinel, and rush out into the 
darkness. But they cannot pass. Others throw 
their passports away and hope to get into heaven 
some-how; but no one is allowed to pass the Pearly 
Gates without one, and all such are cast into hell. 

“Although I had lost sight of other souls 
while coming through the Valley, there was no 
lack of them at the entrance. They were arriv- 
ing all the time. I stood back on the ledge of 
rock, before passing the warden ang*el, and watch- 
ed them come — happy souls, just from a life of 
Christian usefulness on earth; joyous souls, singing 
sweet refrains; merry souls, laughing and glad to 
meet some well remembered friend; weary souls, 
having wandered in the “Valley and Shadow of 
Death” for years before seeing the guiding rays of 
the beacon-light, and then so happy to reach that 
shelf of rock and rest; living and dead souls; good 
and bad souls; I watched them arrive. I recog- 
nized several of them, but they did not observe me 
as I was hid in a shadow. Finally I spoke to one 
of them. Like me, he still retained the likeness 
of his last body — an old playmate of mine when I, 
Merideth Kline, was a boy. 

“ ‘Henry,’ I called. ‘Henry Thomas.’ He 
raised his head, and seeing the angelic look upon 


I 


ze^ldke, the devie’s daughter. 


35 


his face I knew his destination was the Holy king-- 
dom, but, yet I dared to show myself and speak 
to him for a moment. Upon my coming out of the 
shadow he recognized me, and together we went up 
to the angel, received our permits and passed into 
the Great Beyond. 

“Just inside of the entrance is a broad stair- 
way leading down, down, down. If a mortal could 
see that stairway how he would long to possess a 
part, if, not all of it; for it is of solid gold. Your 
greatest imagination cannot conceive of it. Large 
slabs of the precious metal form the steps; and each 
is engraved in the grandest style — figures of 
cherubim and seraphim; chariots drawn by dragons; 
animals known and unknown to mortals; birds and 
fiowers; and many other beautiful things, designed 
in best artistic taste. Kvery fifth step— and there 
are over nine thousand — is broader than the others; 
and upon these are statues and statuettes of the 
most lovely kind, all of it gold, enameled in brilli- 
ant colors. 

“Although so many souls are arriving all the 
time, there is no crowding upon the stair, it is so 
wide. My friend and I paused before each statue 
to admire and praise; and though, we had seen all 
of them several times before, they still seemed new, 
such was their loveliness. My friend knew. I’ve 
no doubt, my destination; but he said nothing 
about it, and loitered along the way with me, ad- 
miring this and examining that. Down we went, 
step after step, seeing greater beauty as we advanc- 
ed, until we reached the bottom, and then there was a 
change. 

“At the foot of the stair is a long passage. 


36 


ZKLDKK, THK devil’s daughter. 


and, althoug-h the stairs are brilliantly lig-hted, this 
passag’e is dark and g'loomy — not black like the 
Valley and Shadow of Death, but feebly lig'hted — 
g-etting- darker the farther you advance. It is 
damp and chilly too. 

“Down this passag’e my friend and I walked. 
A shiver ran throug-h us as some slimy, crawling- 
thing- g-lided past. Great thing's like spiders, only 
larger than earthly ones, were crawling on the 
walls; snakes and" toads could be seen in the nitches; 
blind bats whirled above our heads; and nameless 
things — nasty and loathsome, creeped or ran or 
flew about us. We hastened on in hopes of pass- 
ing the frightful objects; but they became more 
numerous and loathsome. We knew they could 
not hurt us, but yet we felt a dread of them — such 
a dread, that we were glad when we arrived at the 
end of the passage. There were two pair of g'ates 
there; those on the right made of pearl, and we 
knew, that heaven was beyond; and those on the 
left made of iron, and we knew that hell was on 
the other side of them. We were near our destina- 
tion then and we had to part. 

“Bidding me farewell with a shake of the 
hand, he walked up to the gates of pearl; they 
opened and he passed through. For a moment I 
caught sight of a gleam of brilliant light and 
heard a strain of sweet music; then the gates closed, 
and I turned toward the gates of iron. Willingly 
would I have fled; but I knew it was useless. 
Where could I go? I knew if I attempted to re- 
pass the nasty inhabitants of the passage; they 
would block my way and my attempt would be in 
vain. My fate was decided for me and I must 


ZEIvDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


37 


yield. 

“Quickly g’oing- to the g-ates before my courag'e 
failed, they opened, and I passed into the howling- 
clamor of the Hell of Souls, 


CHAPTER VII. 

“You have heard much talk of hell; but if you 
should chance to g-o there you’d be g-reatly sur- 
prised. You have been taug-ht, that it was a lake 
of fire — a seething caldron of liquid souls, hissing, 
shrieking, groaning and cursing. There are all of 
these noises there and many more; but the other 
part is incorrect. 

“A soul is a substance invisible to mortal eyes; 
and yet has form and passion. I know it is denied 
by philosophers as well as by theologist, but it is 
true never-the-less. Robert Ingersol, the great 
atheist, has said, ‘There is no hell,’ or something 
to that effect, but that does not alter the fact of 
there being one. What is remorse but hell ? Re- 
morse of the bodily conscience is hell on earth; and 
remorse of the soul is hell beyond the grave, even 
if there was no place for remorseful souls to dwell. 
But there is a place — a terrible place, ‘Prepared for 
the devil and his angels,’ ruled over by Satan and 
guarded by legions of devils. A mad-house might 
be termed a hell in minature; but if we were to 
combine a thousand of them and place all of their 


38 


ZELDKK, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 


howling- maniacs in one larg-e room, we then would 
have but a faint conception of what hell is. 

“On the face of every soul in hell remorse is 
pictured. There is not a one of them who has not 
been to heaven, and now remembers its grandeurs 
and the holy peace they knew while there. Com- 
paring it with their present abode, this dark and 
dreary infernal region, where hope comes not and 
love is not known, except the baser passions, is it a 
wonder that they know remorse ? Idleness is an- 
other curse of hell. The souls there have nothing 
to do, nothing but think — think of their vile deeds, 
think of the Heaven they have lost, think of what 
surrounds them, think, yes think. Do you know 
what it is to think ? Not thoughts of fame, not 
asperations, not to plan, not anticipations; I don’t 
mean that kind of thinking at all; I mean thoughts 
without an aim, thinking on one thing, over and 
over, until that thought becomes a monotony, and 
that monotony, a madness. Thus it is in hell. 
Millions of souls are there with no occupation, 
nothing to keep them from thinking. There is no 
sleeping there, no oblivion, no forgetfulness. The 
dead souls are doomed eternally to this — souls of 
men and women, dead; that is, will have no other 
body; but are living in hell forevermore. With 
the souls that are not dead, those that will have 
bodies again, it is not so bad; for they have expect- 
ations if no hope. Their hell consists principally 
in seeing the misery of others. I was of this more 
favored lot; and in fact, was more favored than the 
rest of them. 

“Scarcely had I passed though the gates, when 
I heard a voice, I had heard before, saying, ‘So 


ZEIvDEK, the devil’s daughter. 


39 


you’ve come at last. How long- you were, I have 
almost regretted leaving you to come alone.’ 

“Turning I beheld the woman, or soul, of my 
dream — the same exquisite form; the same lovely 
face; and the same beautiful, but maddening eyes. 

I knew her then. I had seen her once before my 
dream as I had seen her then. It was ‘Zeldee, the 
Devil’s Daughter.’ It is useless to describe her now; 

I did that sufficiently once before. As I looked at 
her then, those eyes again took possession of me; 
and I shuddered, for I knew her history. I had seen 
her several times in other forms than that of Zel- 
dee; but only once before my dream in that. 

“Beelzebub the king of devils was very angry 
when he heard of the advent on earth of Jesus the 
Son of God; and filled with jealousy he quickly 
left his throne of Darkness, and came to earth to 
superintend the destruction of Christ. He first 
sent his servants to tempt Him in every form, but 
without avail, they could not make Him sin; and 
then he tried; and you know the story of that 
tempting, how repeatedly he offered Him great 
things, and how repeatedly the God-man refused 
them, and drove back the temptor. 

“Then Satan fled; but ere he returned to hell, 
he took the form of a man and went into another 
country, and made his way to the palace of the 
king. Here he represented himself as an embassa- 
dor from the far Kast; and told such straight- 
forward tales, (the devil is a great liar) that he 
was believed. While at the palace he met the ver- 
gin daughter of the king and was often with her 
alone. He remained there but a few days; but 
when he left, the king’s daughter was a vergin no 


40 


ZKI.DKK, thk devil’s daughter. 


more. The servants of the king- soug-ht hig-h and 
low for the embassador; and had they found him, 
his life would have been required for his deed. But 
the embassador had the form of the devil once 
more, and was invisible to them. So it came about 
that the devil became the father of a daug-hter; 
thoug-h the king- had her killed immediately after 
birth; but her soul still lives, and the devil calls 
her ‘Zeldee.’ 

“Unlike other souls she has the power to g-o 
when and where she pleases; thus she was able to 
appear to me in what I’ve alwa3’'S termed my dream. 
I realize now that it was not my physical eyes that 
saw her, but the eyes of my soul. She has her 
earthly bodies too, like all other souls that are not 
dead; so when I entered hell I recog-nized her, not 
only as the woman of my dream, but also as a soul 
I had seen in hell before; and one I had seen the 
body of on earth several times; and often we had 
been thrown tog-ether and our lives had blended. 
Althoug-h she retained the reason of her soul while 
in the body, she never devulg-ed her secret; so it 
was never known except to souls that the devil had 
a daug-hter. 

“Knowing- her history", as I did, from beg-in- 
ning^ to end; when she began to talk to me and tell 
me again how she loved me I knew it was useless 
to resist and yielding to her seductive charms I was 
led away into the heart of hell by Zeldee.” 

For sometime, the doctor and preacher had 
been too interested to interrupt the narrator, but 
in the last few minutes it had slowly dawned upon 
them that it was broad day-light. And althoug-h 
they would willingly have had Anthoin pro- 


ZKLDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 41. 

long- his narrative, they knew it was time to depart; 
so asking- him to skip minor details, and come to 
the point and end of the story as soon as possible, 
they settled themselves in their chairs ag-ain, and 
prepared to listen to the close, and afterward to 
question. 

Marcus Anthoin, thoug-ht a moment, and then 
said, “I hardly know how to shorten, without 
spoiling- the tale; but I know you wish to be g'one, 
that is quite natural, so I will do the best I can. 
Zeldee took me under her special care; and showed 
me thing’s in hell I had never seen before. If 
she went up to the throne of her father, I went too; 
if she wandered to the farthest bounds of the king- 
dom, I was by her side. We were continually to- 
gether. She would never let me leave her. Those 
eyes, that had haunted me so on earth, had the old 
power over me, and kept me under the control of 
their owner. She was of a jealous disposition. I 
suppose this accounts for her excessive watchful- 
ness. I was not sorry for her attention, however, 
as my lot was made more bearable by it. It was 
something to divert my mind from the misery 
around me. 

“She was almost constantly telling me of her 
love and begging me to love her in return. One 
day when she had been more passionate than usual, 
and had thrown herself into my arms with that 
careless recklessness that characterized her, (I held 
her willingly. Who would not have done so?) I 
asked her, ‘If you love me as you say you do, what 
will you do when one of us is sent back to earth to 
inhabit another body?’ 

“She lay motionless for a minute, and then 


42 


ZKLDKE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER. 


Sprang- from my arms and shrieked, ‘What will I 
do? Nothing-. I tell you it shall not be. Do you 
think I lured you here for nothing-? Do you want 
to g-o back and leave me?’ 

“ ‘No, no,’ I hastened to reply, trying- to soothe 
her. ‘I assure you I don’t want to g-o without you; 
and ’twould g-rieve me as much if you went as it 
would you if I went.’ I was telling- the truth; for 
I knew what hell would be if she was not there to 
amuse me. 

“She looked searching-ly at me for a moment 
and then said, ‘Then you do love me.’ I did not deny 
it. She g-ave me another searching- look and then 
came close to me, took me by the hand and said, 
‘Come.’ It was not necessary that she should have 
taken me by the hand to lead me, had she but look- 
ed, I would have been compelled to follow; but in 
her excitement I suppose she forg-ot her power. 
Through hell she led me, directly past her father’s 
throne, he laughed when he saw us, a laugh that 
was more of a roar. To the farthest bounds of hell 
she went, and I followed. There was the black 
wall I’d often seen before — a wall so black that not 
an object could be seen upon it. I was about to 
stop; but she kept straight on. Noticing my 
astonishment she laughed and said, ‘You are just 
like the majority of the other poor souls. You 
think this is a wall, but you are mistaken. It is 
nothing but darkness that is so thick no light can 
penetrate it. Even if other souls knew it, I don’t 
think they would venture to do what you and I are 
going to do, thcLt is, pass through it.’ 

“As she spoke we passed into the darkness* 
There was the blackness of the Valley of the Shadow 


ZKlvDEK, THK DE Vila’s DAUGHTER. 


43 


of Death and the stillness of it also. I certainly 
should not have ventured into it alone, but 
Zeldee seemed to be perfectly familiar with the way, 
for she steadily advanced. I had heard of souls, 
who had wandered aimlessly about in this darkness 
for years, trying- to find their way back to earth, 
but who had finally g-iven it up and g-one toward 
the beacon-lig-ht, as soon as they saw its rays, 
arriving- at Hades very much exhausted. I had no 
doubt, in spite of Zeldee’s calmness, but that, that 
would be the way with us. I mig-ht have resisted 
my conductor had I been able to resist; for althoug-h 
her eyes were invisible in that darkness she still 
held me by the hand and hence she ruled my will. 
Just as I had about nerved myself to make a slig-ht 
remonstrance, and was about to ask her to return to 
Hades, if she could, a faint streak of lig-ht loomed 
up before us; this became wider and wider until we 
immerg-ed into the lig-ht that lights the earth. 

“You see gentlemen how difficult it is to shorten 
the tale; but it must be done I know. First, I’ll tell 
you Zeldee’s plan to keep us from separating. 
When we reached the earth, which no other souls 
had ever been able to do, she proprosed, we should 
flit through space, from town to town, and country 
to country, until we found a couple, a man and 
wife, who were dying; and whose ends would come 
near the same time. She proposed, when the 
bodies were vacated by their former souls, that we 
should enter them; and by our superior will power 
and activity, force the worn out forms to do our 
will. I had little hope for the success of the plan; 
but yet was willing to try it. 

“We found what we wanted in New Orleans. 


44 


ZEI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


A man and his wife were wasting- away. The 
man was about seventy-five and the woman seventy 
years of ag-e. Their disease (their souls were tired 
and needed rest, that was all ) had baffled the doc- 
tors, who had said they could not live but a few 
days; so we determined to remain near by, to enter 
as soon as their souls had left the bodies, providing- 
they departed about the same time. We did not 
have to wait long; the end came the following 
night. Two sons and a daughter of the dying 
couple; the husband of the daughter; the doctor 
and several of the neighbors were there when the 
end came. 

“The woman died first. One of her sons held 
her in his arms until she breathed her last; then he 
laid her gently down, and brushed a tear from his 
eye; while the daughter sobbed aloud. My cour- 
age would have failed me then, had not Zeldee 
been ruling my will. Five minutes later, the old 
man opened his lips as though to speak, but he 
only gasped and closed his eyes. 

“The doctor said, ‘He is gone.’ 

“ ‘Now,’ said Zeldee. And I immediately enter- 
ed the body of the man and she that of the woman. 
I exerted all my will; but at first the tired heart 
refused to beat; but it yielded at last and blood be- 
gan to course through the veins. Zeldee’s task 
was more difficult; but she finally succeeded. Of 
course everybody was greatly surprised at Marcus 
Anthoin and his wife returning to life after the 
doctor had pronounced them dead. But we cared 
nothing for that. We would have prefered to have 
gotten into younger bodies; but determined to make 
the best of our lot. Although we had the ability 


zeld£:e, the devil’s daughtek. 


45 


to enter the bodies, we did not have the power to 
leave them except by killing* them, or in dreams, 
when we slept. In a weeks time we were able to 
leave our room. I had stopped calling* her Zeldee; 
and called her by the woman’s name, ‘Antonette’. 

“We lived in New Orleans for a year, during* 
which time we quarreled with our sons and 
daug*hter. Ha, ha, our sons and daug*hter! They 
were nothing* to us, so what need we care. Marcus 
Anthoin was not a wealthy man as the world takes 
it; but he had some property. This we converted 
into cash and left the town. After g’oing* from one 
Southern city to another we came here, about two 
months ag*o, and I became ill. We rented this 
house ready furnished, and here you find us. 

My malady, g*entlemen, is a tired soul. This 
body, as you know, is exhausted; so my soul has to 
furnish streng*th for it; that, with the burden of 
the secret, I have just disclosed, was more than I 
could have stood much long*er; but now with the 
secret removed, I, perhaps, can live a few years 
more. 

“Now g*entlemen, I must thank you for your 
kindness and patience in waiting* until the end of 
the story.” 


46 


ZKI.DKK, the devil’s daughter. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

IITTERI-0CT7TI01T- 

The storj was done, and the day was advanc- 
ing-; yet Anderson and Holland did not leave. They 
were interested in the old man and in the tale he 
had told. There were questions to be asked and 
questions to be answsred; so they stayed and plied 
the narrator with the questions, receiving- answers, 
that did not surprise them now — they were past 
that. They often wondered if what he said was 
true, or only the fancies of a disordered mind; but 
his eye was so clear and his answers so straig-ht- 
forward and intellig-ent, that they ceased to wonder 
and took all he said as the truth; even thoug-h it 
blasted the theories they had heard all their lives. 

For the benefit of the reader we will g-ive a 
few of the questions and answers, but bear in mind; 
althoug-h we tell, in part, the conversation, there 
were many breaks and interruptions; many ques- 
tions asked that we do not record; and many dis- 
cussions on the answers that it is not deemed 
necessary to print. We simply tell that part which 
will throw lig-ht on the after story. 

“Are you content to be ruled thus, by another’s 
will?” asked Holland. 

“I am not ruled by anothers will now,” replied 
Anthoin. “That rule ceased last night.” 

“Do you mind telling how you freed yourself?” 
asked Anderson. 

“Centainly not. I realized from the time I re- 


ZELDEE, THE devil’s DAUGHTEK. 


47 


turned to earth, that some day, Zeldee’s rule would 
become irksome to me; and I began to devise some 
plan to escape. I reasoned, ‘It is the strongest 
mind must rule.’ So I studied philosophy and 
what was once called ‘The black art and witch- 
craft,’ but now termed, ventriloquism, mind read- 
ing, hypnotism and the like. It was easy to ac- 
complish my object, knowing as I did, all the 
misteries of the other world. Last night I realized 
for the first time that my will was strong enough 
to cope with hers; and I did not wait to break her 
power; and as soon as it was broken, I found I 
could easily make her obey me; so I did not hesitate 
to ask her to leave the room, when I desired it.” 

“Was there not some way, you could have re- 
sisted her when you was Merideth Kline, before 
she lured you into the Devil’s pit? 

“There were several, if I had but known them. 
One, the method I have already used; another, by 
being a devout Christian; and another, by possess- 
ing the Philosopher’s Stone.” 

“If you had, had the Philosopher’s stone in 
your possession, could you have baffled her succes- 
fully?” 

“More easily than in any other way.” 

“But I thought this stone, of which we speak, 
was an imaginary one; and only reported to have 
power to turn into gold everything it touched.” 

“I know that is the general idea; but it is a 
mistaken one. It is true all baser metals are turn- 
ed into gold by its touch; it is a real stone with 
that power; and the person with it in his keeping 
can become immensely wealthy by using it proper- 
ly, and he also, can resist the devil or any of his 


48 ZKI.DEK, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER, 

subjects.” 

“Is this stone in the possession of man, or is 
it hidden in the earth?” 

“I cannot saj. It was once possessed by an 
old Italian, who did not know its value, and, who 
sold it to a Frenchman for a mere song-. What be- 
came of it after that I do not know. The French- 
man g-ot killed in a duel a few months later. The 
stone may be lost and buried for all I know; but I 
intend to find it, if I live long- enoug-h.” 

“Perhaps it is in the possession of some one 
already.” 

“Then I’ll g-et it from them.” 

“How?” 

“I don’t know that either. I’ll buy it if I can, 
or trade for it, or perhaps I’ll have to steal it, but 
I will have it if it is to be had.” 

The}" all laug-hed at this, for, althoug-h he 
spoke seriously, they imagined he intended it for a 
-joke. 

After many other questions, the two friends 
arose to go, assuring Anthoin that they had enjoyed 
his narrative, and expressed the hope of their meet- 
ing again. 

“I also hope for that pleasure,” replied he. 
“And let me thank you again for your kindness in 
listening to my story. I feel greatly relieved since 
devulging my secret, in fact I feel so much stronger, 
that, I think, I can accompany you to the outer 
door.” So saying he arose from the bed and began 
to dress himself. 

Anderson and Holland each said he was de- 
lighted to see him so much improved, and offered 
to assist him in dressing; but he declined saying 


ZEI.DKK, the devil’s daughter. 


49 


he was even strong-er than he had supposed. 

After dressing- he called his wife, who entered 
immediately, and bid her to bid their friends, “Good 
bye.” She was more pale than on the previous 
evening- and her eyes were not so bright, which 
sug-gested that she had spent a sleepless night as 
well as themselves; and perhaps had listened to 
their conversation; but she did not betray it if she 
had. She followed them and her husband to the 
landing after asking them to remain to breakfast, 
which they politely declined to do. 

Anthoin’s demonish voice had not returned up 
to the time of the friends departure; owing, no 
doubt to his being governed now by his own will. 
He shook their hands at parting, as did his wife 
who informed them that the electric cars had been 
running, as usual, for an hour or more. 

And so they parted, this man and wife, dead 
and yet alive; and the professional men, one of 
whom was feeling glad to go home to his wife and 
child; while the other had a strange feeling in his 
breast, one that was new to him and which he had 
felt for the first time when he held the old crone 
Antonette Anthoin by the hand, and saw those 
piercing eyes bent toward his face. 


ZELDEE^S REVENGE. 


CHAPTER I. 

P'ROI^ OUT THE ITOOSE. 

“There’s many a slip ’twix the cup and the 
lip,” is a saying- old and true. Many a man has 
g-rasped the Goblet of Life and raised it to his lips 
to drink the pleasure thereof; but only found the 
dregs. Many a one has put out his hand to lay 
hold of the fortune that seemed within his reach; 
and drew it back empty. Many another has 
thought to win the “Idol of his Heart,” only to 
receive the “mitten” at the last moment. Many a 
time the Law has caught its criminal; only to lose 
him again before the sentence. 

The Law had lost its criminal. But this time 
after the sentence had been passed; and just before 
the rope was around his neck. Everybody in the 
town was discussing it and surmising how the 
murderer could have escaped. Did he have help 
from the out-side? There was no evidence of it. 
Did he bribe the guards? They were trust-worthy 
men and not likely to receive bribes; and yet, the 
prisoner was gone, with no apparant means of 
escape. His cell had been found barred as usuial 
and none of the guards had seen him pass, if they 
had they would have stopped him. But he was 


ZEI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


51 


g-one, there was no doubt of that; and the scaffold 
which had been erected on the yesterday was still 
standing- in the jail yard, and if it could feel, it no 
doubt, was feeling- very much mortified, at being 
cheated out of its victim. 

Telegrams had been sent in every direction 
giving a discription of the escaped prisoner; but he 
had not been recaptured. The description was as 
follows: “Age: seventy -five, very active for his age; 
heigth: five feet eight inches; hair: very white 
and long; white mustache and goatee; dressed in a 
gray suit of clothes, with negligee shirt, black 
^cravat and rough canvass shoes.” To this was 
added, that the governor offered two hundred 
dollars for his body; but even this did not find the 
missing man. 


One of ths fast mail trains of the Southern 
Railway was speeding northward, with a shriek 
and a roar; dashing over bridges, whizzing over 
trestles, and breaking through the still evening air 
like a great fiery demon chasing the departing 
day. 

In one of the coaches, amid the freight of 
human beings, sat a man that might have attracted 
attention had he shown himself from behind the 
paper he was reading. He was neatly dressed in a 
genteel suit of black; he wore a white shirt, a 
standing collar and a black necktie; an ordinary 
traveling cap covered his head; his shoes were 
nicely laced and well polished; but his appearance 
in this way is not what would have attracted at- 
tention; but, although his hair was black as that 


52 


ZKIvDE:E, the devie’s daughter. 


of a man of twenty-five, his clean shaven face was 
wrinkled as that of a man of seventy. He was 
reading- a paper, as we have already said, and a 
smile brig-htened his face as he read, until it look- 
ed almost boyish; and with a self-satisfied air he 
nestled more comfortably in his seat and went on 
with his reading-. He was reading- of the misteri- 
ous escape from prison of Marcus Anthoin, the 
wife murderer. And what were his thoug-hts? 


In a doctor’s office in Baltimore was seated a 
handsome man, presumably the doctor. He was a 
young- man, evidently not over thirty, of medium 
heig-hth with well built frame. A well trimmed 
mustache covered his upper lip, while his soft blue 
eyes and dark waving- hair g-ave to him the look of 
a poet. There was a touch of melancholy in his 
face — a sad thoughtful expression; and his eyes 
had a far away look as though he saw things in 
the future that other men could not see; but all 
this added to, rather than detract, from the personal 
beauty of Doctor William Anderson, if this was 
him; that was the name upon the plate on the 
door. 

Any woman might have been proud to boast of 
the conquest of his heart. Many fair daughters 
of Kve had undertaken it, but without success thus 
far. He liked the ladies well enough; but as for 
loving them — well that was different. There was 
one woman he could have loved, but he did not 
even know her name, except that it was Gertrude. 

About a year before the time of which we 
write she had passed his office while he was at his 


ZELDEE, the devil’s DAUGHTEK. 


53 


window watching the passers-by. He was at once 
attracted by her face and determined to get a 
nearer view; so bringing his hypnotic power to bear 
upon her, (he was a noted hypnotist) he had the 
pleasure of seeing that it influenced her. Willing 
her to enter his office he turned from the window to 
receive her. She entered, and he found that his 
eyes had not deceived him. She was about eigh- 
teen and very small, scarcely over five feet in height; 
yet her form was perfect and her face angelic. She 
was one of those dainty little creatures, with sunny 
hair, laughing blue eyes, rosy cheeks, rosy lips 
and pearly teeth. Who would not have admired 
her? Not William Anderson. For when she stood 
before him, he was so lost in admiration, that he 
nearly lost his power over her; and only regained 
his presence of mind in time to renew it and motion 
her to be seated. 

“Be natural,” he told her, and began to talk on 
various subjects. He found her intelligent and 
able to converse on deeper topics than most women 
know. He did not detain her long, however, he 
thought, “Some one may enter at any moment and 
understand, or misunderstand in the wrong way, 
either would be disagreeable; so I’d better let her 
leave.” But before she left he asked her for her 
name. She told him, “Gertrude.” 

“Gertrude what?” he asked her. 

“I — I cant remember,” she replied. “It seems 
to be Johnston, Johnson, Thompson or something 
like that. I don’fknow.” 

“Well I can easily find out,” he thought, and 
opened the door for her to go; then he quickly 
closed it again. “Kiss me good bye before you 


54 


ze:i,dke, the devie’s daughter. 


g-o,” he said; but she hesitated before obeying-. “I 
will it,” he said; then she came forward, ’though 
her cheek flushed crimson, and gave him the sweet- 
est kiss he had ever recevied. He allowed her to 
leave then; and released her from his power when 
she was nearly a block away. He was watching 
her from his window, and saw her turn and look 
back as soon as he had released her; then she went 
on again. 

He had never seen her since and had never 
learned her name. We have said, “He was sitting 
in his office.” He was thinking of that remarkable 
stor}^ told to him and his friend Holland, while in 
Birmingham, by Marcus Anthoin; and said half 
aloud, “I must be going crazy; for ever since I read 
of his killing his wife, I have seen those eyes as he 
described them and the woman too as he described 
her. She is too brazen for me, but those eyes, 
those eyes.” and he placed his hands before his own 
eyes as though to shut out the sight of those pierc- 
ing black ones. 

Then taking a paper which lay upon the table 
beside him; and turning on more gas, he proceeded 
to read. The first article he saw was headed, 

“Escaped Criminal.” 

“Wife murderer Anthoin escapes from his 
prison on the night before the day set for his 
execution.” 

He started when he saw the heading; but read 
the article through; and then said, “That fellow, 
Anthoin is no fool.” Just then he heard a light 
tap upon his office door and called, “Come in.” 

The door opened; he sprang to his feet in an 
instant, and said, “Gertrude.” 


ZEI.DEE, the devil’s daughter. 


55 


CHAPTER II. 

WOlwffElT'S I-OVE AITD WOlvfl: AIT'S WITS. 

“What would a woman not do for love? It 
may be true, that she often transfers it from one to 
another, but it is also true, that when she really 
loves, there is scarcely anything- she would not do 
for her adored. 

“ ‘Chang-eful woman, constant never; 

He’s a fool who trusts her ever; 

For her love doth ever g-o. 

Like the waters, to and fro.’ / 

“Dear old Hug-o! How he liked to quote that 
verse of his illustrous name sake. There is a deal 
of truth in the verse too; and it suits my case ex- 
actly. I loved Hug-o as well as any woman loves 
her husband; but now he is dead, and been dead six 
months, I can’t g-o moping- around like I am nearly 
dead too when I am so full of life, I can’t rest 
unless there is something- exciting- g-oing- on. That 
handsome young- doctor I saw the other day would 
be just the fellow to keep me from being- dull. I 
wonder how I can g-et acquainted with him ? I do 
believe I am nearly in love with him already. Let 
me see — what did they say his name was, er An- 
derson? That is a common enoug-h name; and 
William, that is the commonest of common; but 
they don’t sound so bad when used tog-ether: 
Doctor William Anderson, that is alrig-ht. And 
I’ll bet, he is the proper caper.” 

Thus soliloquized young- Mrs. Fleming-, as she 


56 


ZKLDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


sat before a cheerful fire in her cosy sitting’ room. 
The bit of American slang, with which her mono- 
logue ended, and which is not becoming in any 
one, sounded unusually rough, when coming from 
her pretty mouth; for she soliloquized aloud. It 
is strange how many people do this. Can it be 
that they love to hear the sound of their own voices? 
Or is it an unconscious habit, which if you told 
them of, it would be hard to convince them it was 
true? The latter is probably nearer right. At 
least it was so in the present instance; for when a 
lady friend, who had entered unperceived, and who 
had heard most of the revery, began to laugh, she 
was honestly surprised; not so much at her unex- 
pected presence, as at what could have caused her 
mirth. 

“Dear Gertrude, when did you come? I’m so 
glad to see you. Take off that hat and wrap and 
come to the fire; and tell me, for goodness sake, 
what you are laughing at.” 

“At you my dear Kdna and at nothing else,” 
reponded the bewitching Gertrude, who has been 
described in the preceeding chapter. She was a 
great friend of Mrs. Kdna Flemming, having 
known her all her life. She was two years younger 
than her friend and had a much purer mind; but 
they loved each other like sisters; neither of them 
had ever had a sister, or a brother either for that 
matter, being the only children of their respective 
parents, and having been neighbors nearly all 
their lives, they had pla3^ed together when child- 
ren and had continued their intimacy in woman- 
hood. It was a common thing for Gertrude to 
“drop in and spend the day,” with Kdna, and some- 


ZELDKE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER. 


57 


times she would stay several days. This time she 
had come with the intention of doing- the latter. 

“Do I look so ridiculous, that you must stand 
there and nearly kill yourself laug-hing- at rue?’' 
Asked the pretty widow, with pretended ang-er. 

“I laug-h at your words and not at your looks, 
Sweet One,” answered her girl friend. 

“My ‘Words?” 

“Yes, your words. For you must know you 
have the very bad habit of thinking aloud; and I 
have had the pleasure of listening to your love 
revery. Now if you will be so kind as to tell me 
all about this doctor you are in love with, we may 
be able to devise some way for you to get acquaint- 
ed with him. You see I heard it all.” 

The widow joined in the laugh against her- 
self and said, “You bad, bad girl, you should have 
closed 3^our ears and not have listened to a word. 
But no, you stood there as still as a mouse, and 
hea,rd all my secrets. I’m real mad at you. I am.” 
But her laugh belied her words; so failing in her 
sham seriousness she caught the dainty figure of her 
little friend in her arms, and nearly smothered her 
with kisses. Then placing her unceremonioush^ 
in an eas}" rocker, near the fire, she drew up an- 
other for herself and sat down with the air of one 
who says, “Well, what’s next?” 

“Now tell me about your doctor,” said Gertrude 
arranging her disordered hair. 

“There’s not much to tell,” replied Fdna. “But 
I’ll tell you all I know. The other dRj, I think it 
was Monday, I went to see Bertha, I suppose you 
know she has been unstylish enough as to have a 
baby, (its a boy ) arid she is awfully proud of it; so 


58 


ZEIvDEE^ THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER. 


is her husband; well while I was there the doctor 
came. He bowed to me, and of course I bowed. 
Bertha was too much occupied with the baby to 
think about introducing- us, she got out of it after- 
ward by saying, she ‘thought we knew each other.’ 
She said it was Dr. William Anderson and gave me 
the address of his office. That’s all there is about 
him, except, he’s very handsome and I’m in love with 
him; or want to be.” 

“How old is he?” asked Gertrude. 

“About twenty -nine or thirty.” 

“And handsome you say? Describe him and 
tell me where his office is.” 

The widow described the doctor as well as she 
could remember, and she did him full justice; then 
she told his office address. Gertrude Robson start- 
ed, for the locality was the same, in which she had 
had a peculiar dream. Our readers remember 
this same young lady being hypnotized by Ander- 
son, and what followed. She had always looked 
upon that incident as a dream; as she could account 
for it in no other way. She supposed she had, in 
some mysterious way, slept while walking along 
the street, and had continued to walk^ like a som- 
nambulist, dreaming as she went; for she was con- 
sider abl)- farther down the street when she came to 
herself, than when she lost consciousness. To the 
widow’s query of why she started she replied by 
telling her of that dream, and that she had felt afraid 
ever since then, to walk along that street alone. 
But Edna had done a very impolite thing, that is, 
failed to listen to her friend; and had only heard 
her in a vague way. A project had entered her 
brain and absorbed all of her thoughts. As her 


ZELDKE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER. 


59 


friend ceased speaking- she clapped her hands and 
cried: 

“That will be the very thing-; and if I don’t 
have him adoring- me inside of a week then he 
must be adamant.” 

“What will be the very thing-?” asked Ger- 
trude, surprised at her friend’s words. “M3’ 
dream?” 

“No dear,” replied Edna with a smile. “I real- 
ly must beg- 3’our pardon; but such a capital idea 
entered my head, while 3’ou was talking, that I for- 
got you and everything, except that. Now if you 
will tell your stor3’ again I promise I’ll listen to 
ever3’ word.” 

“ ‘Shakespeare never repeats,’ you know; then 
why should I? Besides it is nothing worth repeat- 
ing. I’m more interested in that capital idea of 
yours, than in what I was telling you; so please let 
me know what it is. How are you going to per- 
suade the doctor to love you?” And Gertrude looked 
very interested indeed. Sensible girl that she was. 
she readily over-looked her friend’s rudeness. 

“And you are not mad with me at all for being 
so ill-mannered?” 

“Not at all Edna. But do pra3’ tell me this 
idea of yours before my curiosity drives me mad.” 

“Well it is this. I will pretend to — But you 
will help me wont you?” And the widow looked 
inquiringly at Gertrude. 

“Of course I will,” answered the little lady. 
“You knew that before you asked. Why didn’t 
you keep on? What are you going to pretend to 
do?” 

“Pretend I am sick, very ill, delirious; and you 


60 


ZKLDKE, the devil’s DAUGHTEK. 


as my friend, staying- with me for a few days, will 
get alarmed and send or go for a doctor. That 
doctor will be Dr. Anderson. As soon as he arrives 
you will take him to my room where he will pre- 
scribe for me; and where I will rave, and show off 
charms to the best advantage.” 

“But wont that be a little immodest?” querried 
Gertrude, who shrank from anything low or vul- 
gar. 

“No you little goose. Isn’t he a doctor? And 
as such doesn’t he often go into ladies’ rooms to 
pay professional visits? Besides I am not really 
well, I have had a fever all day. All I’ll have to 
do is to pretend to be much worse than I am. 
He’ll think I have had a chill and the fever is mak- 
ing me delirious; and he’ll give me a fever powder, 
which instead of doing me harm will do me good. 
After that he will call two or three times to see if 
I’m getting along nicely; then if I play my part 
well he will continue his visits in a friendly way 
and the game will be won.” 

Gertrude was not convinced b}^ her friends 
words, that it was right to practice deception, even 
to win a lover; or that it was wise to lay aside 
womanly modesty. And she said as much, adding 
that she would assist her all she could, however, for 
she did not wish her scruples to stand in the way 
of a friend’s happiness and especially when that 
friend was Edna. The widow replied by calling 
her a “Dear little old goody, goody,” and saying, 
“I’m so glad you are going to lay aside your feel- 
ings and help an old friend to win her heart’s de- 
sire. And I’ll try not to make you blush while the 
doctor is here.” 


ZELDEE, THE devil’s DAUGHTEK. 


61 


At this they both laug-hed; for they well re- 
membered a time during’ the life time of Hug'o 
Flemming-, when the married woman’s free ways 
with her husband had made her young- friend’s 
cheek burn with blushes of shame. 

• They dropped the subject of the doctor soon, 
and beg-an to converse on other matters, the latest 
fads of society; the new styles of hats and dresses for 
the coming- season; and such thing’s so dear to femi- 
nine hearts. 

While they were talking. Aunt Dinah, an old 
neg-ress who had lived with the Flemming-’s nearly 
all her life, and who had come to cook for “Marse 
Hug’o” after he g-ot married, and still lived with 
his widow, entered the room and said, “Bless my 
life, if I aint done ring- dat ole bell all to pieces an’ 
yo’ aint beared it yet! Suppah’s ready Miss Edna 
an’ on de table g-ettin’ cole. Bless my life, if dare 
aint Miss Gertrude! I’s so g-lad you’s come. How 
is you honey?” 

“I’m quite well I thank you Aunt Dinah.” re- 
plied the lady addressed, smiling at the old woman’s 
quaint words. 

“Bless my life, if yo’ aint lookin’ well! I tole 
Car’line de udder day ‘Bless my life, if Miss Ger- 
trude Robson dont git prettier ebery day she lives!’ 
But bofe of yo’ had better come along while sup- 
pah’s fit to eat.” So saying the old woman left the 
room followed by the two pretty women, one of 
whom was destined to win the heart of William 
Anderson. 

After supper Mrs. Flemming told Aunt Dinah 
that she wished to speak with her as soon as the 
dishes were cleared away; and then repaired to the 


62 


ZEI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


sitting- room with her friend. It was not long- be- 
fore the neg-ress put in her appearance, and began 
to smile; for the expression on the faces before her, 
told plainly enough, that there was fun to be 
had. 

“What is it Miss Kdna?’’ she asked, her srnile 
broadening into a grin. 

“Aunt Dinah,” the widow began. “Do you 
know where Dr. Anderson’s office is?” 

“No Miss Kdna, neber beared of it.” 

“But you could find it if I told you the num- 
ber and street, couldn‘t you?” 

“Bless my life! Honey yo’ know I cant read.’’ 

“That’s alright,” interposed Gertrude “I’ll go 
with her. I’m not afraid.” 

“And if it is not exactly proper, why a breach 
of propriety is allowed when some one is very 
sick.” And Kdna laughed heartily at her joke. 
Gertrude laughed too; so did the old negress, who 
laughed out of sympathy, not knowing what the 
joke was. 

“Now Aunt Dinah,” said her mistress. “I’m 
going to tell you what’s up; but don’t you ever 
breathe a word of it to anybody, if you do I’ll be 
awfully angry.” 

“Bless my life! Miss Kdna I love yo’ too well 
to make 3^0’ angry. I wont say a word to a soul.” 

“Well then, we are going to pla^" a little joke 
on our friend Dr. Anderson. I’m going to pretend 
I’m sick, and 3^ou and Miss Gertrude will go for 
this doctor. He’ll come and prescribe for me and 
afterwards when we tell him how we have fooled 
him, we will have a laugh at him. Do you under- 
stand?” 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


63 


“Ho! Ho! Bless mj life! Wont dat be fun?” 
And Aunt Dinah held her sides and laug-hed as 
though it was the best joke she had ever heard of. 

Mrs. Flemming- arose and said, “I’d better g-o 
to my room, and prepare to act my part. Gertrude 
come and help me. Aunt Dinah g-o and tell Caro- 
line that you and Miss Gertrude are g-oing- for a 
doctor; that I am very sick and must not be dis- 
turbed by her or any one until you return. Tell 
her to be ready to open the door for you when you 
come back.” 

“Yes Miss Kdna.” And the old neg'ress vanish- 
ed still laug-hing-. 

“We could have taken the latch key and open- 
ed the door for ourselves when we returned, and not 
have let Caroline know anything- about your being- 
sick,” said Gertrude. 

“Yes, and what would Dr. Anderson think if 
he came with 3’'ou and found that I had been left 
alone, and I delerious from fever? No, he must see 
Caroline if he comes with 3-0U, that is certain. But 
)^ou come and help me g-et ready.’’ So saj-ing- she 
led the way to her chamber, where her friend help- 
ed her disrobe. Selecting- her prettiest night dress 
she put it on; and loosening her loveH hair, she 
let it fall over her shoulders, contrasting nicel}" 
with her fair skin and snowy night-gown. Then 
she bid her friend to go and bring the doctor, 
laughing as she took a tragic attitude, and said, 
“Give me William or give me death.” 

In the lower passage Gertrude found Aunt 
Dinah waiting for her, and tog'ether they left the 
house — two agents, one black, the other white, 
sent forth to lure an unsuspecting- victim into the 
snares of Cupid. 


64 


ZKI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER III. 

JL ROVill- n-TTSH- 

In a former chapter we described a man who 
was traveling- northward on a Southern Railway 
train. At Washing-ton Cit}' that man alig-hted and 
went to a hotel, where he reg-istered as Lawrence 
Q. Mayo; ordered a g-ood supper, and eng-ag-ed the 
best room in the house for the night. He seemed 
to have plenty of money which he spent freely; 
therefore he was an object of interest. There were 
three men in particular, three United States sena- 
tors, who were interested in him. They watched 
his ever}" movement; and when he returned to the 
lobby from the dining room, one of them accosted 
him, introduced himself and asked if he ever play- 
ed poker; as some friends and himself were about 
to have a friendly g-ame, and thoug-ht perhaps, he 
being- a strang-er, he mig-ht be lonesome and would 
like to join them to while the time away. 

Lawrence Mayo, or Marcus Anthoin as our 
readers will already have imagined it was, replied 
that he was not much of a poker player, but as he 
had nothing else to do, and as they had been so 
kind as to ask him, he did not mind playin g- a few 
g-ames. So it came about that Anthoin and the three 
senators seated themselves around a table in the 
room of one of the latter. The first senator having- 
introduced Anthoin to the others, cigars and spirits 
were produced; but our old acquaintance refused 
both, though the others smoked and drank freely. 


THK DKVIIv’S DAUGHTER. 


65 


As they drank, their tong-ues became loosened and 
they talked rather too much to pay much attention to 
the game, so the small amounts staked were easil}" 
won by Anthoin. 

“They are baiting me,” he thought. “But 
I’ll watch them and beat them at their own trick.” 

Their gay conversation interested him extrem- 
ly, especially one part of*it, in which he joined. 
One of the senators, speaking of a friend of his, 
said, “He is a duced funny fellow, although an 
American by birth, he hates America with all his 
heart; and has been living in France, for the last 
ten years. He has bought a lovely place near the 
river Rhone, and has built a regular palace. I was 
there nearly two years ago and was fairly dazzled. 
He use to be a comparatively poor man, but now he 
is immensely wealthy. Where he got his money 
nobody knows but himself, and no amount of coax- 
ing will induce him to tell. He said when I asked 
him about it, ‘I thought you would ask that before 
you left; well, I dontmind telling you. I found the 
philosopher’s stone one day; and ever since then I 
have had all the gold I have desired.’ I laughed at 
his joke though I felt very much disappointed; as I 
really had thought he was going to tell me a secret 
that others had tried in vain to make him tell.” 

“Maybe he told you the truth and you didn’t 
know it,” said Anthoin, determined to learn all he 
could of the man who claimed to possess that won- 
derful stone, which he had told Anderson and Hol- 
land that he intended to get. 

“Maybe he did,” replied the senator. “For 
whatever it was must have been equal to it any 
way.” And he took the cards that were just then 


66 


ZELDKK, the DEViE’S DAUGHTER. 


handed to him. It was his time to deal. 

But Anthoin was not satisfied, he continued to 
interog-ate him until he had learned the man’s 
name and where upon the banks of the Rhone his 
home could be found. 

“You seem to be interested in mj friend,” said 
the senator, beg’inning- to deal the cards. “If 3'ou 
wish I will g-ive you a letter of introduction to him; 
then if you are ever in that country you can call 
upon him, and make his acquaintance.” 

“I accept your offer,” replied Anthoin, noticing- 
at the same time, that all of the men had ceased 
drinking and were narrowly watching the cards 
that were being dealt to them. “Please write it 
before we play, here is pen and paper,” handing 
him a fountain pen and a sheet of paper, and then 
adding to himself, “I must get that letter first, for 
this will be the last game. They are preparing to 
‘do me’ now. These senatorial thieves will cheat 
here as well as in the senate.” 

His mind was busily employed, while the sen- 
ator was writing the letter, devising some plan to 
frustrate them; and a smile spread over his features 
as one occured to him that would be an effective, as 
well as an amusing one, if he could carry it out. 

The senator handed him the letter unfolded, 
but he did not read it, he thanked him and folding 
the sheet he put it in his pocket-book. The eyes 
of the plaj'Crs glistened as they saw the roll of 
bank notes the book contained for they thought by 
some means they might become possessors of it. 
As Anthoin replaced the book in his pocket a cry 
like a woman’s, seemed to come from under the table 
and then a woman’s, voice said, “Take your feet off 


ZKLDKK, the; devil’s daughter. 


67 


of me. Wont you?” In an instant every head was 
under the table looking- for the owner of the voice; 
but no one was to be seen. They raised their 
heads and looked at each other in g-reat perplexity. 
The cards, that had been dealt before the letter 
was written, were lying- face downward upon the 
table, and it had taken the old man but an instant 
to exchang-e his for those of the dealer. When 
their heads were raised he looked as perplexed as 
the others, for a moment, and then beg-an tolaug-h, 

“Gentlemen,” he said. “It’s a little joke of 
mine. I am a ventriloquist.” 

The others laug-hed then, but it sounded rather 
forced, and they looked at him with suspicion, 
which his laug-h, with its demon’s ring-, did not 
allay. 

The play beg-an again, and Anthoin saw in an 
instant, that his guess had been correct, for the 
cards he held was a royae feush. He looked at 
the dealer and saw astonishment written on every 
lineament of his face, and he could hardl3' repress 
a smile. The other two players had been looking at 
their cards at the moment and had failed to see the 
look of astonishment; and such was their confidence 
in the ability of their confederate, that they had 
no idea he could make a mistake. 

One of them asked, “Is there a limit to the 
betting?” 

“Of course not,” replied the other two. “We 
have not been limiting it thus far, so why should 
we begin now? And besides, ‘There is no limit 
among gentlemen.’ ” 

The betting beg-an, and went higher and 
higher, each wishing to have as much as possible on 


68 


ZEI.DKK, THE DEVit’S DAUGHTER. 


the table before the call was made. The dealer kept 
with the rest, he was the one to win, he had 
“stacked” the cards to that end and althoug’h he 
saw he had made a mistake somehow, yet he had 
an excellent hand and was confident of winning*. 
His cards were all spades and were the nine, ten. 
Jack, Queen and King. There was not one chance 
in a thousand of his losing, so he thought, and bet 
accordingly. Each man raised his bet until there 
was nearly ten thousand dollars on the table. 

Then the showing came and Anthoin won. 

For a moment the defeated sharpers remained 
dumb-founded. They had been tricked the^^ knew. 
But how? They could not tell. Then maddened 
by their loss and by the whiskey they had drank, 
with one accord they arose to attack the victor. 
But they remained standing motionless by the 
table. Anthoin had performed the wonderful feat 
of hypnotizing three men at a time. 

Collecting the money, he bowed sarcastically 
to the living statues, and left the room. An hour 
later he released the senators from his hypnotic 
influence, and the next morning he took an early 
train for Baltimore. 


ZKLDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


69 


CHAPTER IV. 

JL VOICE IIT TEE EJLRE. 

When Dr. William Anderson recog-nized the 
lady, who entered his office, as the lady he had 
hypnotised a year before, he called her “Gertrude,” 
but realizing- his mistake in betraying- himself, his 
face flushed, and he hastened to make an excuse. 

“I beg- your pardon,” he said, as she started 
back, her face getting- white and red by turns. “I 
had a lady friend upon my mind as you entered, 
and you resemble her very much, so for the moment 
I thought it was her. Pray be seated,” he added, 
noticing her paleness, and wondering if she was 
going to faint, and what brought her there. 

She took the seat olfered her, thinking at the 
same time, how strange it was that this should be 
the man of her dream; and then her paleness left 
her and she blushed to the roots of her hair, as she 
thought, perhaps, what she had called a dream 
might have been a reality, and that she had been 
in this office before and had really kissed this man. 
Anderson handed her a glass of water, which she 
took, and thanked him. 

Having drank it, she said, “I feel better now. 
Your mistake was quite natural; but it startled me 
as my name is Gertrude. But I must tell you my 
business.” Here was a trial for her, and one that 
she had not thought of before. Although there 
was a great mystery connected with her and this 
man, for she did not believe the excuse he had 


70 


• ZKIvDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


g-iven her; and although she had never seen him 
before this night unless the dream was real, she 
had to admit to herself, that she loved him. Ad- 
mitting this, it was indeed a trial to tell him her 
errand and take him to her friend’s to be subjected 
to the power of the fair widow’s charms, and per- 
haps, to learn to love her. But she summoned 
courage to do what she thought was her duty to 
her friend, and tell him of Edna’s illness. He said 
he would go, and would ’phone at once for a car- 
riage. 

“Very well,” she said, rising, though she felt 
ver}” weak, “Then I will go back to my friend. 
You remember the address?” 

“Yes, I remember,” he answered. “But you 
had better wait and go back in the carriage, unless 
you have a conveyance at the door.” 

“It is not a long way, and the walk will do me 
good. Besides there is an old negro woman on the 
outside, waiting for me. I am much obliged to 
you all the same.” 

“Then if you are going to walk I will walk 
too,” said the doctor, putting on his overcoat, and 
taking his hat and gloves from the table. 

Gertrude was delighted to have him accom- 
pany her, but still she said, “You’ll find it a cold 
walk doctor. You had better wait for the car- 
riage.” 

Anderson laughed. The prospect of a walk 
with this fair woman had made him supremely 
happy; though the idea of his falling in love with 
her had not occurred to him. His reply to her re- 
mark was, “If you can stand the cold, why surely 
I can, and if you have no objections to my going 


ZEI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


71 


with you, I prefer to walk.” 

have no objections, certainly. It was of 
your comfort I was thinking-,” and she colored 
deeply as she said it. And Anderson wondered 
“Why?” 

They left the office tog-ether — she, one of the 
few women of today with mind unsulled by ungod- 
ly vanity; one of the few who would think them- 
selves debased if they appeared in public with bare 
shoulders and arms; one of the few, we might al- 
most say, who place virtue above diamonds and 
chastity above great possessions; she who believed 
in God and Heaven with the old time simple faith, 
and strove to do His will; and felt she was sinning 
greatly by helping to deceive the doctor, even 
though she did it for a friend — and he, the cold 
stern man of the world, who in spite of the kind 
talks and warm letters of his friend Holland upon 
the subject; and in spite of the assertions of Marcus 
Anthoin, could not believe in an immortal soul. 
He was not an atheist, for he believed in God; but 
what God was, or where he was, he never troubled 
himself to think. But as they were not likely to 
talk about religion, there was nothing to keep their 
walk from being a pleasant one. 

“Come Aunt Dinah,” called Gertrude to the old 
negress, who had remained out side for no better 
reason than the one she had given the fair girl 
when she asked her to enter with her. 

“No Miss Gertrude, you go on in, I aint gwine 
to put any foots on dem marble steps.” But she had 
been kept waiting in the cold so long, that she had 
heartily repented of not entering. 

“Law Miss Gertrude, I done thought you had 


72 


ZELDKE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


slipped out an’ g-one back a nudder way.” 

“I did keep you waiting- a long time Dinah, but 
we’ll walk fast now, to make up for it.” 

Suiting her actions to her words, she started 
off at a quick walk, the doctor by her side, and the 
neg-ress following. Anderson offered Gertrude his 
arm, which she took, and a thrill ran through her 
as she touched it; and he also felt a feeling un- 
known to him, as he felt the touch of the tiny hand. 
Zeldee, with her maddening eyes, had lost her 
power over him, it seemed, and he remembered her 
no more. He began to talk with the sweet crea- 
ture at his side on subjects of little importance, 
and yet, they unconsciously slackened their speed 
to the great consternation of the poor, old woman, 
who was nearly frozen. Slower and slower they 
walked, until Dinah thought they were going to 
stop; and she looked to see them turn and go back 
at any moment. 

She had kept at a respectful distance and had 
not heard their conversation, but she had said to 
herself, “If dat aint a spoony couple, den I neber 
seen one.” 

Just as she had about determined to get nearer 
them and ask them to walk a little faster, 
they passed a dark alley, out of which a man 
emerged, and said as he passed, “Good evening Dr. 
Anderson.” 

The doctor started violently, and looked 
back. The man was in a shadow, where but a 
ray of light fell upon him; but by that glimmer 
Anderson recognized him. With the recognition 
and the sound of the voice Zeldee’s power over him 
returned, and the walk was no longer a pleasure. 


ZElvDBE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


73 


G-ertrude noticed the chang-e in him, but said noth- 
ing- about it. Instinctively they increased their 
speed, and sood reached the house of Widow Flem- 
ming-, to the intense g-ratification of Dinah, who 
said to herself, “I’s so g-lad dat man spoke to dem 
an’ woke dem up. I wonder who he was?” 

If she had been told, she would have been 
“none the wiser;” but our readers would, for the 
man was Marcus Anthoin. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE OE HEARTS- 

Love is often a melo-drama, sometimes it is a 
trag-edy, but seldom a comedy; yet there are times 
when it is made even that. We are about to relate 
the events of one of those times. 

The door of Mrs. Flemming-’s house was open- 
ed by Caroline, and Gertrude ushered the doctor 
up the broad stairs to her friend’s room. As soon 
they had entered the house they heard g-roans and 
incoherent talk. This became more loud and dis- 
tinct the nearer they approached Edna’s chamber. 
Upon entering- it, they found its occupant indeed a 
vision of beauty. Her cheeks were red as though 
flushed by fever, but truly caused by pinching, and 
close proximity to the fire. Her magnificent hair 
falling in bewildering disorder over her shoulders^ 
iseemed to make a frame for the picture — her face. 
Her eyes shone brightly,, and her teeth showed be- 


74 


ZELDEE, THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER. 


tween her rosy lips, like two rows of pearls, adding 
beauty to the picture. Her clothing was in disor- 
der, being open in front, showing her snowy throat 
and one ravishing breast, to great advantage. She 
was seated on the edge of her bed, with one knee 
clasped in her arms, rocking herself to and fro, 
groaning and talking aloud. The position she was 
in had a tendency to draw her night-dress from 
over one of her shapely limbs, and it was revealed 
nearly to the knee. 

Gertrude was astonished; and she blushed until 
her cheeks looked like a summer garden of roses, and 
the words, “Oh! Edna,” were spoken ere she knew 
it. But the doctor seemed not to notice his patients 
appearance; infact he seemed to be pondering deep- 
ly. It looked as if there was something of more 
importance on his mind, than the illness or charms 
of Mrs. Edna Flemming. And there was, some- 
thing of more importance, to him at least. He had 
scarcely seen the widow; for Zeldee’s eyes were 
absorbing his attention. He asked Gertrude,, 
“How long has she been like this?” But without 
any curiosity or interest in his voice; and when she 
answered truthfully, “I dont know. She was not 
as bad as this when I left,” he seemed to hear her 
voice, but not to understand her words. Mechan- 
ically he placed his thermometer between Edna’s, 
lips, and when she spit it out and went on with her 
raving, he quietly replaced it in his. pocket, and 
wrote a prescription which he handed to Gertrude, 
saying: 

“Give her one of these powders as soon as you 
can get them, and the other in the morning. I 
will call again to-morrow. Keep her as quiet as» 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


75 


you can.” Then he quickly crossed the room and 
opened the door. “Good nig-ht,” he said, and he 
was g’one. 

Aunt Dinah who was at the foot of the stairs 
showed h im out, and received to her querry of, 
“How is she?” only the g-rulf answer, “About the 
same.” 

The door closed behind him with a bange and 
then from Kdna’s room there came peal after peal 
of laughter. Gertrude never smiled while her 
friend laughed. She stood in the center of the 
room with a sad expression on her face. Her 
friend thought it was caused by her being shocked 
at her disheveled appearance. But she was mis-^ 
taken, for Gertrude was thinking of Dr. Anderson. 
“Who could it be who had such an influence over 
him, that even the sound of his voice would make 
him forget everything else.” There was some- 
thing mysterious about it too. A doctor does not 
often go into a sick room and leave without examin- 
ing the patient, yet that is what had just occurred. 
If it was some trouble weighing on his mind, and 
the sound of that voice hcud recalled it to him, how 
gladly she would have helped him bear it. But 
there was no way for her to ascertain the truth of 
the matter; so her mind was racked with con- 
jectures, and so lost was she in her thoughts, that 
Edna spoke twice to her before she heard her. 

“Poor little girl! Did I shock your modesty to 
such an extent tEatyouare speechless?” And then 
the widow laughed again; but as Gertrude .did not 
speak, she beg'an to feel angry, and crossly said, 
■“For goodness sake, don’t stand there looking as 
■though I had killed some one. If I had known 


76 


ZKI.DEE:, THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER. 


you would make such a scene about it, I wouldn’t 
have gotten you to assist me.” 

“Oh Edna! I am so sorry; but I was not think- 
ing of you at all,” and Gertrude went to her 
friend’s side and put her arms around her. “I was 
thinking of how strange the doctor acted. Did you 
notice it?” 

“Notice it? Of course I did,” answered the 
widow. “It was more than I hoped for. I had ex- 
pected him to be dazzled, but not to lose all control 
of himself like that. Did you ever see a man so 
flurried? Why he was afraid to look at me; and 
as for touching me, I believe he would have faint- 
ed.” 

Gertrude was about to reply that she did not 
think Dr. Anderson’s agitation and loss of self- 
control was caused by Edna: but she decided not to 
do so, as she might have betrayed her own feelings 
if she talked to much about him; and besides, Mrs. 
Flemming would not have believed anything con- 
trary> to what she wished to believe. So instead 
of enlightening her friend upon the subject she 
simply said, “I think it will be best to destroy this 
prescription, it might be dangerous to take any 
medicine prescribed by a man in his frame of 
mind.” 

“That is just what I think. He’ll be back to- 
morrow, but I’ll be so much better he wont need to 
give me another prescription. I hate to take medi- 
cine, and was a little afraid, if I acted as I did he 
would insist on making me take some while he was 
here. But everything worked lovely; and to-mor- 
row we will see, the second act in the Comedy of 
Hearts.” 


z:fel.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK. 


77 


Let us leave the actress of the Comedy for a 
while and follow the actor. He was as near to be- 
ing- mad as the widow had appeared to be. In 
the first place, he was in love with Gertrude, 
thoug-h he did not realize it, for the fiery eyes of 
Zeldee drove her from his mind. They seemed to 
be burning- into his brain. For once in his life he 
believed in a soul — and he would have killed that 
soul as Marcus Anthoin had killed the body, if it 
had been possible for him to do; for instead of lov- 
ing- Zeldee he hated her with a hatred that increas- 
ed every moment. 

He was returning- to his office, or more truly 
speaking-, he was following- her eyes which led him 
in that direction, when upon entering- a badly 
lig-hted street, her form as well as her eyes became 
visible to him. She was dressed as Anthoin had 
described her, and was walking- along the street a 
short distance ahead of him. She often looked 
back with a provoking smile. She was indeed 
pretty, there was no denying that, and if she had 
been a mortal, she would have been frozen in a 
short time; but as it was, her body, bare to the 
waist, and her limbs, bare to several inches above 
the knees, did not seem to feel the cold at all. 

Anderson determined to catch her, and beg her 
to cease to torment him; so he called aloud, “Zel- 
dee, Zeldee, wait a moment I wish to speak with 
you,” but he was answered by a mocking laugh, 
while a policeman standing on a corner, who of 
course could not see Zeldee or hear her laugh, 
mentally observed, “That must be a lunatic. I’ll 
follow and see what he is about.” The laugh 
maddened Anderson, who determined to catch the 


78 ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER, 

laug-her. 

He ran toward her, but with another laug^h she 
began to run too. It was a race not often heard of, 
— a soul being* chased by a human being*, a doctor, 
and he in turn being* chased by a policeman. It 
did not last long*, however, for just as Anderson 
put out his had to take hold of her, Zeldee sudden- 
ly turned and crossed the street dodg*ing* under the 
heads of two horses, attached to a heavy carriag*e, 
being* driven recklessly down the street. Ander- 
son was broug*ht to a sudden halt, and the wheels 
of the carriag*e g*razed him as it passed. A hand 
was upon his shoulder holding* him with a g’rip 
like iron. 

“What are you about?” asked the policeman. 

“Mr. P'errell you have saved my life,” said the 
doctor, realizing* the dang*er he had been in, “I 
must be going* crazy.” 

“Why Dr. Anderson I” ejaculated the police- 
man, loosening his hold on his shoulder. “Is it 
you?” 

“Yes,” said Anderson, with a faint smile. 
“This is I. But let me thank you for what you 
have done, I — ” 

“I only did my duty,” quickly interrupted Fer- 
rell. “But I have gotten off of my beat and must 
get back, so good night,” and he turned and walked 
swiftly away. 

Zeldee’s form had vanished, but her eyes re- 
mained to torment Anderson. There was a glitter 
in them too, that had not been noticeable before; 
and it made the doctor think it boded no good to 
him. 

He was not far from his office, and reached it 


zj^ldee, the devil’s daughter. 


79 


soon without further adventure. He was surprised 
thoug’h, to find it brilliantly lighted; for when he 
left, he had turned the light low and locked the 
door; but now he found the door unlocked, and up- 
on entering, he found a man seated, before the fire, 
in an easy chair. It was evident too, that the fire 
had been replenished. 

The man did not rise when Anderson entered, 
but contented himself with nodding his head and 
saying with a bland smile, “You see doctor, I have 
made free use of our slight acquaintance, by taking 
possession of your office in your absence, and mak- 
ing myself comfortable to await your coming.” 

The doctor did not return the friendly nod and 
smile. He had no liking for criminals — especially 
wife murderers; so with something like a frown 
upon his handsome face, he said, “Mr. Anthoin, 
your ‘free use,’ as you say, of our slight acquaint- 
ance would be alright in a man worthy of respect; 
but a murderer cannot expect me to harbor him 
from justice. Yet, because you did me a favor 
once, though with a selfish motive, I will not hand 
you over to the law if you will leave immediately; 
but if you remain, I must call an officer.” 

Anthoin listened to him with the smile still 
upon his face. No one seeing him, would have 
thought he was being called a murderer, and be- 
ing asked to leave the office. He remained seated 
when Anderson ceased speaking, but threw his 
head back and laughed loud and long. It was that 
same demonish laugh, that Anderson had heard a 
few months before in Birmingham, and it seemed 
now to chill the blood in his veins. 

Enduring it as long as he could, he opened the 


80 


ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


office door, stepped aside and looking- at Anthoin 
at the same time pointing- to the door, he said, 
“Go, g-o I say!” 

Anthoin seemed to control his mirth with 
difficulty, and manag-ed to say, “I prefer you would 
call an officer.” 

There was something- so strang-e in his voice, 
that Anderson closed the door; and seating himself 
some distance from the intruder, he asked, “Well 
what do you want? Is it money?” . 

“Now you are becoming yourself again,” re- 
plied Anthoin, his laugh giving place to a sober 
countenance. “I have sufficient money to last me 
for a while. What I want, is simply a conversa- 
tion with you. There are few people that I have 
taken a fancy to, at first sight, and you are one of 
the few. Of all the millions of men and women in 
this world, you are the only one I call my friend, 
and you are the only one I am a friend to. I am 
believed to be a murderer, and you are the only one 
I care to disuade from that belief.” 

“Then you did not kill your wife?” asked the 
doctor, his face losing some of its sternness, and 
moving his chair nearer the fire. 

“Yes, I killed her,” he was answered. “But I 
did not murder her. It all came out of my telling 
my stor}^ to you and Mr. Holland.” 

“I think I understand it now. She listened 
when 3"ou related your stor^^, and afterwards up- 
braided 3^ou and 3’ou killed her. But that was 
murder. Wasn’t it?” 

“Yes, that would have been murder if I had killed 
her for that; but it did not happen that wa.j. She 
listened to m}^ stor}^ as ^’ou have said. She remain- 


ZEI.DEK, THE devil’s DAUGHTEK. 


81 


ed at the door of the room all through the night, 
as she told me afterward, vowing vengeance on the 
men who dared to handle her name so lightly. She 
determined to kill me, then Holland, and then her- 
self. You, she had taken a fancy^to, so she was 
not going to wreak her vengance upon you until 
after her death, when she intended to take control 
of you as she once did of me, first to madden you; 
then to destroy your body; and finally to rule your 
soul in hell. These intentions are worthy of the 
fiend she is. She attempted to carry out her de- 
signs with me, but I out-witted her, and sent her 
back to the infernal region. 

“For a week or two she said nothing about 
having heard m}^ narrative; then one night, as we 
sat before the fire in our room, she accused me of 
infidelity, and told me of listening to us on that 
stormy night, and what resolves she had formed. 
Suddenl}’' rising from her seat, with shrieks and 
oaths she dashed at me, brandishing a long bladed 
knife. I would have hypnotized her and spared 
her life, but I had not time, for her will was nearly 
as strong as mine. I only had time to spring to 
my feet, grasp the chair in which I had been sitting 
and with it fell her to the floor. I looked to see 
her get up somewhat subdued, but she never 
moved. You know the rest. She was dead. I 
had brained her. 

“I was arrested, tried and convicted for her 
murder. I did not defend myself, but on the night 
before the execution day, I hypnotized the man who 
brought my supper and made him leave my cell 
door unbarred. Then I left barring the door be- 
hind me. I hy’pnotized all the guards I met, and 


82 


ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


SO passed them without their knowings it. I think 
I must have hypnotized over a dozen people before 
I felt myself to be free. I waited too until I had 
changed my appearance before I released them 
from the power of my will. You see doctor, I am 
not a murderer.” 

“My friend, forgive me for calling you a mur- 
derer! You know that appearances were against 
you.” And Anderson held out his had to Anthoin. 

The latter took it and shook it warmly, saying 
as he did so, “You called me friend. I am glad of 
it. And as to forgiving you there is nothing to 
forgive. Had there been I would not have laughed 
as I did. I know you thought it strange, and that 
is what I intended. I’ll tell you why I acted so. 
If I had not laughed and acted mysteriously you 
might have called an officer and that would not 
have suited me at all.” 

“Then it was only a bluff?” 

“Exactly.” 

Thus they conversed; though all the time An- 
derson could see the eyes of Zeldee glaring fiercely 
at him. He told Anthoin about them and that 
they nearly drove him mad at times, adding, that 
although she had failed to avenge herself on the 
others, she was not failing in her vengeance on 
him. Anthoin replied that he had known it for 
some time, having learned it in that mysterious 
way in which he and Antonette had known the 
doctor and preacher were coming to their house in 
Birmingham on that stormy night. 

As they talked the time flew by until the bells 
rang out the hour of mid-night. Then their conver- 
sation ceased, and Anthoin — strong minded man as 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


83 


he was — felt a chill creep over him and he shudder- 
ed; while Anderson seemed to sink into a stupor, 
thoug-h conscious of everything- around him. The 
door remained closed and the windows barred, yet, 
there in their midst stood Zeldee. ‘ 

A scornful smile curled her lips as she looked 
at Anthoin. “So you have escaped my vengeance,” 
she said. “Well so be it, but you shall have my 
curses. There is one, though, (pointing at Ander- 
son) that cannot escape me.” Then to him she 
said, “You hear that do you? You escaped me 
to-night, but you cannot do so for long. You love 
Gertrude Robson now, but you will forget her and 
love me. Hal Ha! Ha! Love her a week, love me 
forever.” 

Turning from him, she bent her flashing eyes 
upon her former husband, and shaking her jeweled 
spear at him, while fire seemed to jump from its 
point, she shrieked, “I curse you! I curse you! I 
curse you!” 

Then she vanished. But with a baffled look 
upon her face; for Anthoin had answered her curses 
with a laugh. 

The doctor’s stupor left him as she vanished, 
and for a long time the friends sat and talked about 
her strange visit to them. An hour later Anthoin 
left, and as he shook Anderson’s hand he said, “We 
may never meet again on earth in our present 
forms, but our souls will meet some day. So until 
we meet again, farewell.” 

Anderson remained at his office all that night. 
He knew he could not sleep if he went to his room, 
there were too many thoughts in his mind — thoughts 
that had never entered there before. He had al- 


84 


ZKLDEK, the DEViE’S DAUGHTER. 


ways supposed life to be simply existence; nothing- 
more than the activity to the body, that when the 
body ceased to move and the heart ceased to beat, 
then life was destroyed. He had listened to An- 
thoin’s story, on the nig-ht he saw him for the first 
time, because it interested him, liking-, as he did, 
anything fanciful or wierd, though he believed in 
nothing supernatural. The narrative, however, 
made a deep impression on him; and for a short 
while he wondered if it really could be true, that 
man had a soul. It sounded more reasonable the 
way Anthoin explained it, than the way most 
preachers preached of it, but he soon dismissed the 
subject from his mind as mere bosh. But as he sat 
in his office chair through the remainder of the 
night, after Anthoin had gone and all was quiet, 
he thought and believed in an immortal soul. 

It never occured to him that his visitor might 
have been a magician, and the apparition, noth- 
ing but one of his magical tricks, and her voice, 
but that of a ventriloquist. Zeldee to him was 
real. Had he not been seeing her eyes for weeks? 
Had he not seen her form earlier in the night? 
And had she not lured him nearly to his destruc- 
tion? There was no doubt of it, Zeldee was a living 
soul, and he thought, “If there is one soul, then 
there must be others.’^ He believed ever}^ word of 
Anthoin ^s wonderful story. Why should he not? 
He was having the same experience that Anthoin 
formerly had. 

These thoughts of Zeldee did not fill his mind 
entirely. He thought of Gertrude; and realized, 
that he was in love for the first time in his life.. 
“Gertrude Robson,” Zeldee had called her, and he 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


85 


firmly believed it to be her name. He also was in- 
debted to Zeldee for awakening- in his mind the 
fact that he loved. But still he detested that vile 
soul. The more he loved the Ang-elic Gertrude the 
more he hated the Demoness Zeldee. 

And so the nig-ht passed slowly away. One 
moment the doctor would smile as he thought of 
the little lady, who had taken possession of his 
heart, and then an ang-ry look would come into the 
eyes that were ever before him, and the smile 
would chang-e into a frown; and he would shudder 
as he would think he could never enjoy the love of 
Gertrude while those eyes haunted him. 

While he thoug-ht of her, Gertrude thought of 
him. She and Edna occupied the same bed; and 
long after the pretty widow, with her breast full of 
hope for the morrow, had laughed herself to sleep, 
she remained awake thinking of the man she loved, 
and puzzling her brain to imagine what really 
caused his strange conduct. She felt there was 
some great danger threatening him, and gladly she 
would have risked her life, and even her honor, if 
need be, to protect him. But what could she do? 
Long she lay there gazing at the ceiling above 
her; until the fire was extinguished and the room 
became chilled. She had said a prayer, not pra3"ed, 
before she retired. Who could have prayed with 
Edna laughing all the time. She did not feel satis- 
fied, so toward morning she slipped from the bed 
and knelt by its side, in the cold, and prayed: 

“Oh Father! protect William, shield him from 
danger.” 

When she arose from her knees she felt relieved. 
She had placed him in the care of her God, who 


86 


ZKI.DEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


had never failed her. She quietly lay down ag-ain 
by the side of Bdna; and fell asleep in a short 
time. 

What a contrast there was between those two 
women? One of them hoped, on the morrow to se- 
cure a man’s heart for a toy, perhaps, to cast it 
aside when tired of it, reg’ardless of the pain she 
caused. “Toys were made to break,” she thoug’ht, 
“Then why not break that toy?” The other hoped 
and prayed that, that heart would never know 
pain; and was willing- to shield it at any cost. 

That heart belong-ed to Anderson; and each of 
the women thoug-ht she loved him. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE PI-ilY GOES OU- 

Dr. Anderson called at Mrs. Flemming-’s, the 
following- day, and found her g-reatly improved; 
thoug-h he had but a slig-ht recollection of her con- 
dition on the previous evening-. She was sitting- in 
her cozy sitting- room when he was shown in by 
Caroline, and received him with her most winning- 
smile. She arose as he entered, bowed g-racefully 
and said, “Oh doctor! I am indebted to you so 
much for saving- my reason. They tell me, that 
when you came last night, I was a raving maniac. 
Words cannot tell how thankful to you I am.” 

And in those mocking eyes before his mental 
vision, there came a merry glitter; for Zeldee could 


ZEI.DEK, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK. 


87 


read the scheming widow’s thoughts, if he could 
not. 

He remained nearly an hour to Edna’s intense 
gratication, presuming, as she did, that she had 
infatuated him; and that he could scarcely tear 
himself away. The truth of the matter was, he 
stayed as long as propriety would allow hoping to 
see Gertrude. But he was doomed to be disappoint- 
ed; for Gertrude did not show herself; though she 
watched him from an upper window, as he walked 
away, and she sighed and placed her hand over her 
heart as though to ease the pain there. 

The next day he came again and remained 
longer than on the day before. But still Gertrude 
was invisible, and he left mentally swearing at the 
torturing eyes before him, that seemed to laugh 
and deride him. Again Gertrude watched him 
from the upper window, as he left. But this time 
instead of only sighing, she burst into tears; for 
she thoug'ht, “He loves Edna and can never love 
me.” If she had known the truth, those tears 
would have been tears of joy. 

The following day the doctor called earlier 
than usual; for he was determined to see Gertrude 
if possible, and to his great delight he met her in 
the reception hall. She blushed, though he knew 
not why, bowed politely; and would have hurried 
away; but he stopped her and said, “Gertrude — 
Miss Robson I mean. Why do you keep yourself 
hid so?” Caroline, who had admitted him, dis- 
creetly left them alone. 

“Can’t 3^ou imagine wh^r I come here?” The 
doctor’s voice became tender; and he took possess- 
ion of her hands, which she attempted to with- 


88 


ZELDBE, THE devil’s DAUGHTER. 


draw, but he held them fast. “Mrs. Flemming’ is 
well, and does not need my services, and yet I con- 
tinue to come. Why? Can’t you g’uess?” He 
paused a moment, as though waiting for her to an- 
swer; but she only hung her head, and feebly tried 
to take her hands from him. “I came hoping to 
get a glimpse of you. Kver since our little walk 
and pleasant conversation, pleasant to me at least, 
I have longed to see you again.” 

Her hands were motionless, the flush deepened 
on her cheek, and she looked up as she asked, “To 
see me?” 

“Yes Gertrude, to see you. May I call you 
Gertrude?” He looked down at her as he spoke, 
with love beaming in his face; and he almost lost 
sight of Zeldees flashing eyes as he did so. 

“You may if you wish,” she answered. “It 
will seem natural to you, I suppose, as the friend 
of whom you were thinking when I entered your 
office a few nights ago, is named Gertrude.” 

Anderson smiled as he remembered the excuse 
he had made for calling her name, and determined 
to make a clear breast of it, “That friend was 
you,” he said. “Don’t you remember ever seeing 
me before that night?” 

The flush faded from Gertrude’s cheek, and 
left her pale and trembling. But she said nothing; 
and Anderson continued. “It was not the first 
time I had seen you, or had spoken to you. About 
a year ago you entered my office; we conversed for 
a while and when you left you — ” 

“Oh don’t!” she cried, interrupting him. 
“Don’t sa}" it. Please don’t.” And again she 
tried to remov^e her hands from his. But he held 


ZEI.DEE, the devil’s daughter. 


89 


them firmly. 

“Let me keep them,” he pleaded. “Do not 
take them away. I want to tell you why you en- 
tered my office, and how much I have thoug’ht of 
you since then.” 

But at that interesting- moment, when Ander- 
son was g’oing’ to breathe love, with sincerity, into 
a fair woman’s ears for the first time; and when 
Gertrude’s cup of happiness was to overfiow, Mrs. 
Flemming-, who had been reading- in her sitting- 
room, and had heard a murmur of voices in the 
hall, opened the sitting- room door and stood before 
them. They were confused, and she — well, if a 
thunderbolt had struck the house, she would 
scarcely have been more shocked. There was the 
doctor, “Her doctor,” as she had called him once, 
holding- the hands of her friend and g-uest; 
bowing- over her in a familiar way; and 
looking- at her as thoug-h she was the dearest 
person in all the world to him. It was an 
outrag-e that the woman she had called her 
friend should play her false, in her own house too. 
Why did she, who was such a model of womanly 
virtue, sneak about and meet her (Mrs. Flemming-’s) 
lover on the sly like this? If she wanted him for a 
lover, why didn’t she come into the sitting- room, 
where he could talk to both of them, and not way- 
lay him in the passag-e? It was unlady-like. Thus 
reasoned Mrs. Flemming-, who we will have to ex- 
cuse; for her vanity had passed through a severe 
trial. 

“Dr. Anderson,” she began, in a cold, sarcas- 
tic voice. “I think I have recovered sufficiently to 
dispense with your services. Send me your bill, 


90 


ZELDEE, THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER. 


and I will send you a check for the amount. Ger- 
trude,” she added, turning to her, “A lady 
should be careful in her conduct with a gentleman. 
This is no place for love making. You had better 
come into the sitting room.” 

It was evident to the doctor and Gertrude, that 
he had been snubbed. Gertrude Robson was no 
weak bit of milk and water gruel. She would have 
angerly answered Edna’s insulting words; but she 
had long since learned to govern her temper, and 
knew it would be more lady-like to remain silent. 

She simpl}" extended her hand to the doctor. 
(He had dropped both of them, when Mrs. 
Flemming appeared.) He grasped it in his strong 
one and shook it, giving a gentle pressure ere he re- 
leased it. 

“Good bye,” he said. “We will meet again.” 

“I hope so,” she truthfully replied. “Good 
bye.” 

And then he bowed politely, though it seemed 
half mockingly, to the widow and left. It was 
then, that the full force of Edna’s anger broke 
forth. She accused Gertrude of many ridiculous 
things; and raged on until completely out of 
breath. 

The little lady remained silent until the end of 
the tirade; then she quietly said, “If it was neces- 
sary for me to defend myself, I would call your at- 
tention to the fact that it was I who brought this 
man to you when I could easily have kept him 
away. I left him alone to you yesterday and the 
day before; and would have done so today, but 
could not keep out of his way. I had no idea be- 
fore, that he wanted to see me. Although I have 


ZElvDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK. 91 

been loving* him for a year, (you see, you have not 
the first claim on him as you say) I had no thoug*ht 
of his loving* me. But you don’t believe what I 
say, and it is immaterial to me. After what you 
have just said, I don’t think we can be friends any 
more. I will g*et my thing*s and leave. No, don’t 
say anything* else,” “as Edna seemed about to 
speak. “Let us part in peace if not as friends.’’ 

Ten minutes later she departed. They, who 
had been friends for nearly a score of years, were 
separated at last, and by a barrier that would 
never be removed. 

An hour later Dr. Anderson received the fol- 
lowing* note, broug*ht by a special messeng*er: 

“My Dear Dr. Anderson: — 

You really cannot know how sorr}' 
I am for my rudeness. What made me act so, I 
must not tell you; perhaps you can imag*ine. If 
you will come this evening* at five o’clock and take 
tea with me, I am sure I can make you forg*ive me. 
Please come. 

Yours Truly, 

Edna Hale Flemming*. 

A smile curled the lips of the doctor, as he 
tipped the messeng*er, and said, “There is no an- 
swer.” 

Then turning* to the fire he placed the missive 
upon it. If he had never seen Gertrude Robson he 
would have accepted the invitation to tea and have 
had all the fun with the widow he could — but with 
the fair haired, blue eyed, dainty little woman in 
his heart; and Zeldee’s eyes before him, it was 
different. So the charming* Edna had to drink her 
tea alone; if she cared for it at all. 


92 


ZEI.DEE, THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER. 


I 


CHAPTER VII. 

IIT ZEI-DEE^S POWER. 

Man’s destiny has always been a mystery, and ^ 

will always remain so. Man’s future must sta}^ in ^ 

obscurity. There are records of men’s lives being* ) 

laid out before them, and the future fulfilling the ] 

prophecy; but it is more often the case, that the j 

prophet is a false one. So it is that very few men j 

would care to have their future unfolded to them, ) 

or would believe it, if it was revealed. j 

Julius Caesar smiled at the warning of the - 

soothsayer to “Beware the ides of March,” and 1 

yet the sharp blade of Brutus together with those ■ 

of the other assassins let out his heart’s blood at ! 

the foot of Pompey’s statue. The vision of the ^ 

guillotine which was shown to Marie Antoinette by j 

a magician, as the novelist says, when she made ' 

her triumphant bridal entry into France, was no j 

doubt, soon forgotten; and yet the keen edge of j 

that bloody instrument lowered her proud head to : 

a level with the populace; and her husband’s had 
dropped into the basket months before. It is said j 

that Lord Byron was foretold events in his life by j 

a Gyps)^; and other great men have had their ; 

futures pictured with accuracy. But they are all ; 

exceptions. Foreknowledge of this description is i 

generally incorrect. ■ 

But be it so or not, if some one had told Dr. | 

Anderson, that it would be months, and that he 
would nearly pass into the jaws of death, before he 


ZELDEE, THE devil’s DAUGHTEK. 


93 


a^ain saw Gertrude Robson, he would not have be- 
lieved it. 

After destroying- the note received from Mrs. 
Flemming-, he stood for a few moments as though 
lost in thought, then he left his office with some 
definite purpose in view, it seemed. But a change 
came over him when he reached the street. He 
wished to go in one direction, but an irresistible 
force seemed to draw him another. Strive as he 
would, he went not whither he wanted; but follow- 
ed the ruling power — that power was Zeldee’s eyes. 
He had lost control of his mind; he could not gov- 
ern his thoughts. What he did was not his desire, 
but the wish of Zeldee. He passed old acquaint- 
ances on the street, but if he saw them he did not 
recognize them. He entered a bank; and although 
the cashier was an intimate friend of his, he made 
no reply to his cheery, “Good day.” He filled out 
a check for three thousand dollars and presented it; 
and even though it over drew his account for several 
hundred dollars, it was cashed without comment, 
he being so well known. 

From the bank he went to a railway passenger 
station, and procured a ticket to New York. There 
was no northbound train leaving for several hours, 
and 3^et he waited. His manner was so strange, 
that people commented freely upon it; but he 
seemed not to hear them. He was recognized by 
men and women; but they were as strangers to 
him. 

A newspaper reporter accosted him and said, 
“Are 3’ou g*oing to take a trip. Dr. Anderson?’’ 
But his onl^" reply was a vacant stare. 

When the leaving time of his train arrived he 


94 


ZELDKE, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 


entered one of the coaches, and seated himself with 
a mechanical movement. The other passeng’ers 
watched him curiously, and said, “A strange man.” 
And indeed he was. Going on an unknown jour- 
ney without bag or baggage. Was ever like heard 
of before? 

While Zeldee’s power over Anderson increased, 
the woman who loved him dearer than her life, 
was praying for him. Gertrude Robson had great 
faith in prayer, and had stemmed the tide of man}' 
a girlish trouble by its aid. 

While the night express, with Anderson 
aboard, was speeding northward, Gertrude seemed 
to have a presentment that all was not right with 
the man she loved. What it was she could not 
tell; but there was something wrong she felt sure. 
Again and again she prayed, still that comfort, 
that usually followed her prayers, did not 
come. She did not sleep that night. As the hours 
dragged slowly by, the presentment of evil befall- 
ing her beloved weighed more heavily upon her 
breast. The almost sleepless night she had passed 
at Mrs. Flemming’s was nothing to compare with 
this; then she received comfort from prayer, now 
she did not; though she prayed as she had never 
prayed before, and her tears fell like rain. 

But when morning came her eyes were dry, 
though tear stains were upon her pillow. Her lips 
were parched and on each cheek a bright red spot 
was glowing. She tossed deliriously upon her bed 
in the throes of fever. For weeks she lay there, be- 
tween life and death. Her mother, and excellent 
nurse, remained almost constantly by her side, only 
leaving when it was absolutely necessary to get a 


ZKLDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


95 


little sleep. 

The old family physician would often look 
jJTave, shake his head and say, “If we could but 
find this William for whom she calls so often, there 
mig-ht be some hope for her. But as it is — ” and 
then he would sigh and shake his head again. 

There was one person who could have inform- 
ed them of this William, that was Mrs. Edna Flem- 
ming, and doubtless she would have done so had 
not her vanity been trampled on again. Hearing 
of Gertrude’s illness she pocketed her pride and 
trying to forget the supposed treachery of the fair 
girl, she promptly called to see her former friend 
and was shown into the sick room. But it had 
such a bad effect on the patient, throwing her into 
a nearly ungovernable fit of raving, that the doc- 
tor advised that the widow be excluded from the 
room thereafter. And so they lost that chance of 
learning who William was, though they did not 
know it. 

Youth triumphed at last, however, and one 
bright spring day Gertrude accompanied by her 
mother was moved to a farm house in the northern 
part of Virginia where the bracing country air put 
new life into her frame. 

Once she had asked “Mother, did a Dr. Ander- 
son call to inquire after me while I was sick?” 

And her mother answered “No.” 

A sad, weary expression came into her face and 
she sighed. Had he neglected her? She loved 
him and could not believe it. Some harm had be- 
fallen him she felt sure and she longed for her 
strength, and the time when she would return to 
her home so she could learn something of him. 


THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE. 


CHAPTER I. 

TXZS 

It was no palace. It was only a spacious 
modern dwelling, furnished after the modern fash- 
ion with the best that money could buy. It was 
planned by an American architect and hence was 
of American design. 

Its surroundings, the magnificent shade trees; 
the well trimmed shrubbery; the nicely kept lawn, 
the summer house and the other buildings all com- 
bined to show, there was some one on the premises 
of refined tastes. It was called “The American’s 
Palace” by the people of the village near by, not 
because it was palatial in appearance but because 
it was far superior to any house for miles around. 
This house, or palace, which ever you please, was 
situated in France near the river Rhone. If it is 
there today or not I cannot say, it may have been 
demolished by storm or fire, but if it is there it is 
in the hands of strangers; while the man who 
had it built and who surrounded himself by all of 
its luxury is sleeping in the village grave yard. 

One bright spring morning two men were con- 


ZKLDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


97 


versing- in the villag-e tavern. One of them was a 
tavern loung-er, the other a strang-er in the villag-e. 
The loung-er was like the rest of the villag-ers, only 
a little more indolent and fond of g-ossip, and as 
the tavern was the place to hear all of the latest 
news he made it his headquarters. It was a rare 
thing- for a stranger to enter that village, so when 
one appeared he was eyed as though he was a wild 
beast of some kind 'in a cage, being paraded for the 
benefit of the vilagers; and whoever was lucky 
enough to be spoken to by him, was the center of 
attraction for weeks, he having to repeat over 
and over the few words said by the stranger. So 
the lounger felt greatly honored when the old gen- 
tleman, for the stranger in this instance looked at 
least seventy years old, began to question him con- 
cerning what few things of interest there were in 
that locality. 

After the conversation had progressed for 
some time the stranger asked, “Do you know a man 
in this locality named Robert Bouman?” 

“The American who lives in the Palace?” 
queried the lounger. 

“He’s an American. But does he really live 
in a Palace?” 

“Well not exactly, but it is called ‘The Ameri- 
can’s Palace.’ ” 

Although the stranger’s first question concern- 
ing Bouman had not been answered directly, he con- 
cluded by the others talk that he knew something 
of the American. So he asked “What kind of a 
man is this fellow?” 

“I can’t say,” cautiously replied the lounger. 
“He may be alright, but some don’t like him. I 


98 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


haven’t seen much of him myself.” 

The old gentleman eyed the fellow narrowly 
and detected at once his reserve, but determined 
to draw him out. He made a false statement at a 
hazard; and to his delight, the glib tongue of 
the man was loosened, and he learned all that he 
cared to know concerning Robert Bouman. 

“I have heard,” said he, “That this man is 
very wicked. In fact I know a thing or two that 
he would not care for many people to know, and 
I could take him from the false position he is 
occupying, if only I knew what opinion his neigh- 
bors have of him.” 

As we have said the statement was false but 
as the lounger did not know it he gave the stranger 
all the information he desired. 

If that is what you want, there is no one who 
can tell you the opinion his neighbors have of him 
better than I. You have heard right, he is a very 
wicked man and his neighbors know it. He is 
feared and hated by almost every body for miles 
around. Being very wealthy he does anything he 
pleases. It is a common occurance for a man’s 
daughter to be kidnapped, or his wife be lured 
away from home by him; and if the irate father or 
husband goes to the palace to regain the lost one, 
he is set upon by the villian’s servants, beat and 
kicked shamefully, and often chased from the place 
with dogs. Sometimes too, a man is found near the 
place, bruised and lifeless, and it is usually a near 
relative of a woman he has lately decoyed. But 
this is not all, often when a woman resists his en- 
treaties his treatment of her is too horrible to men- 
tion.” 


ZElvDKE, The devil’s daughter. 


99 


“Is there no law to punish him? Why don’t 
they arrest him?” Asked the strang-er. 

“That was tried long- ag-o,” replied the loung-er. 
“But French justice is like American justice, on the 
side of the one who makes the larg-est bribe. You 
can imag-ine monsieur the opinion of his neig-hbors 
in reg-ard to his character. Where he g-ot his 
money no one knows; it is the opionion of some 
that it was a leg-acy from the Devil; but if this is 
correct or not, he uses it for the Devil’s work.” 

“Well that opinoin is wrong-,” said the old man 
turning- toward the door. “I know the source of 
his wealth, and the devil had nothing- to do with it. 
I am much oblig-hed to you Monsieur for your in- 
formation, but I must be g’oing- now. Then he 
passed into the one street of the villag-e. 

Perhaps our readers have recog-nized him. 
The dye that was once upon his hair has been re- 
moved leaving- his locks silvery white; he has g-rown 
no beard upon his wrinkled face, and his limbs are 
suple as when we saw him last. It was Marcus 
Anthoin and he was in quest of the “Philosopher’s 
Stone.” 

He had once told Dr. William Anderson and 
the Rev. George Holland that he would get the 
stone. How, he did not know, but he would get 
it. And as he left the tavern and passed into the street 
he said to himself, “If he was a good man I might 
have some compunction in robbing him of his 
treasure. But as it is, well, ‘Bet the devil take 
care of his own.’ ” 

Henri Gailor was a young man who had left 
his home and gone to Paris to seek fame and for- 
tune. Although neither had been successfully 


100 


ZEI^BEK, the DEVIE’S daughter. 


achieved, he had g-ained enoug-h of each for the 
people in his native villag-e, who listened eag-erly to 
every account of him that reached them, to think 
he was illustrious. And many were the tales told 
of his boyhood by the old men and women, while 
the young- ones stood around and listened, wishing- 
that they too could become famous and have the 
ag-ed g-randsires and g-randames tell pretty episodes 
of their young-er days. 

“A man hath no honor in his own country,” is 
true to some extent, but it is not true of the French 
villag-ers. Let one of their number leave home 
and win fame to no matter how small a deg-ree, his 
former associates will load him with honors. 

When Marcus Anthoin left the tavern and 
passed into the street of the little villag-e, he found 
the inhabitants of the place flocking- into the street 
also. They were g-reatly excited and happy in the 
extreme. Henri Gailor had unexpectedly returned 
and the youths of the villiag-e had him upon their 
shoulders, proudly parading- him about the streets. 
He protested vigorously, declaring that he must go 
home and greet his aged father and mother but 
they would not hear of it until they were through 
with him. Then one of their number called for a 
speech, the cry was taken up by others and even the 
older people standing near clapped their hands and 
joined in the cry. An empty box was soon pro- 
cured, and he was placed upon it while cry after 
cry of “Speech, speech,” rent the air. 

“My friends,” he began, and he smiled as he 
looked into the joyous faces crowded around him. 
“I am no speech maker, but out of regard for the 
kindness you have shown me I will try to talk for 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK. 


101 


a short while, and then I am sure 3’ou will let me 
g-o to see m}^ parents.” 

Shouts of “Yes,” “Yes,” answered him; but 
the^" knew full well, there was another, besides his 
parents, he wished to see, and that was the fairest 
maiden of whom the village boasted, and his 
promised bride. 

“Long- }^ears ag-o,” he continued, “when the 
earth was not crowded with men, but those that 
lived were happ)' and lived for centuries, a father 
called his sons to his side and said: ‘The time will 
come m)^ sons when men will value an hour as you 
value a day.’ That time has come dear friends. If 
we waist an hour now it is more disastrous in its 
consequences than if those ancients waisted a day. 
At the foot of the Hill of Life ^^ou loiter and pluck 
the gay flowers of pleasure. You smile as 3^ou 
look at the climbers toiling above 3^ou and say: 
‘There is plenty" of time for me to start later on.’ 
You are deluding 3’ourselves. How old are 3"OU? 
Twent3"-five or six some of you say. Then can’t 
3’ou realize that a third if not half of your life is 
past. 

‘If up a hill 3'ou start at earh^ morn. 

You’ll reach the top before the evening tide. 

But if you wait until the hours have flown. 

You’ll pass the night upon the mountain side.” ’ 

“Well said,” muttered Anthoin as he turned 
awa3'. “But let him entertain his friends, I have 
other business. I must get possession of the phil- 
osopher’s stone, and then I will have reached the 
mountain peak of wealth if not fame. 

So he left the crowd of happy people, and pass- 
ed down the street in the direction of the Ameri- 


102 


ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


can’s Palace. On the out-skirts of the village he 
stopped, a woman was sitting in a cottage door, 
weeping bitterly, and by her side was a little girl 
weeping also. Anthoin noticed at once that the 
cottage and its surroundings were neat and clean, 
showing that its occupants were not indolent. 
“Perhaps these people are in need of food,” he 
thought. “If so they deserve help. I’ll speak to 
them.” 

The woman raised her head when he stopped, 
but the child kept hers buried in her apron and con- 
tinued to sob aloud. Anthoin raised his hat, 
bowed politel}’' and said, “Madam it appears that 
you are in trouble. If I can assist you in any wa3^ 
I shall be glad to do so.” 

The woman hesitated a moment then stifling 
her sobs she said: “I am afraid Monsieur you can- 
not help me.” 

“Perhaps I can do more than you suppose, ’’ re- 
plied the old man, still thinking she was in destitute 
circumstances and too proud to own it. 

“Oh Monsieur I am a poor widow woman, and 
had only two children to love and now one of them 
is gone.” And she covered her face with her hands 
again, adding her wailings to those of the child. 

“Is she dead?” asked Anthoin. 

“No, no, I would she were, rather than this. 
Monsieur she has been kidnapped by that wicked 
American who lives over there,” and she pointed 
in the direction of the American’s palace. 

“I understand now. I have heard of this vil- 
lain,” said Anthoin, thinking at the same time, 
perhaps, the daughter might have gone of her own 
free will. 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. IQiJ 

But the woman continued, “He has often tried to 
entice her by offers of g-old, but she repulsed him 
every time and came and tbld me of his insulting 
offers. Poor girl she is only seventeen and has no one 
to protect her but myself. But what could I do? Her 
father is dead, she has no brother aud her affiance 
is awa}’ in Paris. With no one to help me I could not 
hope to do what strong men of the village had failed 
to do, resist this monster and protect his victim from 
him. Early this morning while I was at a neigh- 
bor’s he came with his servants and stole my Marie. 
You see this scar?” and she pulled the child’s hand 
away from her face, showing a bruise near the left 
temple. “The dear child held fast to her sister and 
the brute struck her here and felled her to the 
floor.” 

Anthoin’s face got white with rage and it was 
with difficulty that he suppressed his fury. “That 
is enough,” he said, “I am going to this dog’s ken- 
nel and unless he releases your daughter immedi- 
ately I’ll tear his smoking heart from his vile body 
and throw it to the hounds!” 

He turned away abruptly and stalked off once 
more in the direction of the American’s palace. 

The woman called her thanks after him but 
she had little hope of his success, so she reseated 
herself on the door step and began to weep again. 
If she had known the man her eyes would have been 
dry, and she would have been looking for her 
daughter, knowing* she would surely return. 

An hour later Henri Gailor came joyously 
toward the cottage, but stopped suddenly at the 
sight of tears. Marie was his promised bride, and 
he had come expecting her happy greeting, and 


104 


ZEIvDEJE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


this was the sig'ht he saw. The mother in a few 
words told him the fate of her daug'hter. 

He stood as one dazed for a short while then 
roused himself and said, “Marie, My Marie g'one? 
My sweetheart lost? But he shall g'ive her up.” 
Then dashing- into the cottag-e he returned with a 
long- bladed knife in his hand. “It is better than 
nothing-,” he cried as he passed the woman and 
sped away in the direction that Marcus Anthoin 
had taken. 


CHATPER II. 

TIXS OP* 2«^SRZZ3STZX SZ.ZXTS. 

When Marcus Anthoin related the story of his 
marvelous adventures to Anderson and Holland, he 
simply mentioned to them that when he was Meri- 
deth Kline he was a woman hater, saying- it was the 
same old tale of blue eyes and sunny curls, and 
then she loved another. If he had said, that al- 
thoug-h he was never married, he had lived with 
that blue eyed and sunny haired woman for three 
years, it would have been more correct. They had 
one child who was named after her mother. Clara 
Kline was a pretty infant and bid fair to be like 
her mother when she reached maturit}^ The elder 
Clara took the child with her when she deserted 
him for another man. 

One nig-ht while searching in her trunk for 
some lost article she found a long forgotten Bible 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


105 


which had been g-iven to her in her g-irlhood by 
her mother. A flood of memory broug-ht back the 
scene of the old home, her g-entle mother, her ag-ed 
father, and her brother and sisters. Tears filled 
her eyes as she opened the book, and throug-h the 
tears she beg-an to read. It was the story of the 
adulterous woman broug-ht to Christ. And when 
she reached the part where Jesus said, “Go and sin 
no more,” it seemed as thoug'h the words had 
been spoken to her and she determined then and 
there, to leave her life of sin. Taking- her child 
she went to a western city and secured employ- 
ment as a seamstress, and in the town there was 
no one more pious than Mrs. Kline, as she called 
herself. Merideth Kline never knew what became 
of Clara and her child, and so did not mention them 
when he related his narrative to the two friends on 
that nig-ht of wind and snow, except the allusion to 
“blue eyes and sunny curls.” 

Thirty years after the woman’s reform, her 
daug-hter was sittings in a handsomely furnished 
room in a house in France, near the river Rhone. 
She was the unhappy wife of the owner of the 
American’s palace. We say unhappy, for althoug-h 
she was surrounded with every luxury, her lot was 
one not to be envied. She loved her husband once, 
she thoug-ht, but his conduct had long- since smoth- 
ered the amorous flame. No doubt she was the 
only being- with whom he came in contact who was 
not treated brutally by him at some time or other. 
He was always g-entle to her, therefore she could 
not complain of him on that score. It was his 
neg-lig-ence that stifled her affections. As she sat 
at her piano and let her fing-ers wander aimlessly 


106 


ZELDEE, ;.THE ..DEViE’S DAUGHTER. 

over the keys, she thoug’ht of her happy childhood 
passed in the United States of Americay, . and she 
sighed like a bird. in a gilded cage, for the palace, 
was her prison. 

A cough aroused her from her revery,- turning 
quickly she came face to face with a man. 

It was Marcus Anthoin. He was standing, hat 
in hand, near the center of the room. He had seen 
the lady through the window, and at once recog- 
nized her face as one he had seen long ago. See- 
ing no servants he entered the house and passed 
into the room without being announced. 

As she turned when he coughed, he bowed low 
before her and said, ere she had time to speak: 

“Good morning, are you or were you named 
Clara Kline?” He did not speak in French. He 
could not mistake the American appearance of the 
lady, and spoke accordingly. 

His presence in the room had frightened her at 
first, but when he pronounced her maiden name in 
her native tongue, she felt more at ease, and though 
her voice trembled a little, she answered quietly: 
“That was my name before I married Mr. Bouman. 
Did you ever know me or my parents?” 

“I knew you as an infant. I was your father’s 
best friend.” 

“That being the case” she said, “I am indeed 
glad to see you Mr. — .” 

“Anthoin.” And he smiled as he supplied the 
name. A smile of a pretty woman and of an old man 
is always pleasant; so when he smiled Clara 
Bouman felt drawn to him, and it seemed that she 
had known him always. 

“Pray be seated,” she continued, “A friend of 


ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


107 


my father, who alas, was never known by me, shall 
be my friend also, if he will.” 

She extended her hand to him which he took 
and raised to his lips. A rush of fatherly love fill- 
ed his heart but he controlled his emotion and said, 
“It will make an old man like me happy to be your 
friend.” 

He seated himself, and soon the two were con- 
versing- like old acquaintances. Anthoin learned 
from her that she was not happy; that her husband’s 
vile deeds were known to her and pained her a 
g-reat deal and that she would have left the place 
long- ag-o, to return to her mother in the United 
States, but she knew that she was watched, and 
any attempt to escape would be frustrated; and in 
all probability it would make her husband treat 
her as cruelly as he did the others. The con- 
versation continued nearly an hour. When 
Anthoin arose to leave he told Clara part of his busi- 
ness there. (He did not mention the philosopher’s 
stone.) He told her that her husband had that 
day abducted a young- g-irl from the villag-e, and 
that he had come there to make him liberate her. 

“Dont attempt it,” she cried in a frig-htened 
voice, catching- hold of his arm as thoug-h to detain 
him. “When he has done a deed of this kind he 
keeps his servants, six powerful men, on g-uard in a 
room back of this, which is connected to his room 
of infamy by a private stair. “If any one attempts 
any interference with their master he is brutally 
treated by them and sometimes, I am afraid, they 
leave him lifeless.” 

“They shall not leave me lifeless,” said the 
old man, taking- her hands gently from his arm and 


108 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK. 


holding' them in his. Neither will they be brutal 
to me. I have a passport to your husband’s pres- 
ence, a letter of introduction from an old friend of 
his. Besides I could conquer twice six men. But 
tell me, is there no other wa}' to reach his room 
except through the one guarded by his servants?” 

She hesitated a moment and then answered. 
“None, not even by a ladder to his windows; for 
they are securely barred.” 

“Then I must ascend the stair,” he said as he 
released her hands, “Good bye; it may be that I 
will see you again, but if I do not, don’t forget the 
old man who, though he has seen so little of you, 
loves you as a father loves his child.” 

Stooping he lightly kissed her forehead and 
left the room. 

When he had gone, Clara began to pace rest- 
lessly to and fro with a troubled look upon her 
face, wondering if she had done right or wrong 
in telling the old man a lie. She decided at last 
that she had done right in keeping her promise; 
for she had promised never to reveal her knowledge 
of the sliding pannel leading to her husband’s 
room, through which she used to enter, but 
through which she had not passed for years. As she 
thought of it, her rights as a wife seemed to rise be- 
fore her, and more than ordinary compassion for 
the poor girl in his power filled her breast. Sud- 
denly she ceased her pacing, stood motionless for 
a moment, and then with head erect she left the 
room, fifteen minutes after Anthoin had done so. 

She had promised not to reveal the secret door, 
but had not promised not to use it; and she deter- 
mind once more to assert her rights and strive to 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


109 


save the unfortunate g-irl imprisoned in the room 
from her villianous husband, and perhaps she 
could protect the brave old man if he put himself 
in danger. But like the mother of Marie she did 
not know the power of Marcus Anthoin. 


CHAPTER III. 

r'TTiT Auc r'oi-x--5r. 

When Marcus Anthoin walked into the midst 
of the six stalwart servants of Robert Bouman, they 
sprang toward him like wild beasts springing upon 
their prey. But he laughed tantalizingly as he 
waved them back, and to their query of who he 
was and what he wanted, replied, “It makes no dif- 
ference, I want to see your master.” 

“Well you can’t see him,” said the fiercest look- 
ing of the men, who appeared to be the leader. 

“Can’t see him eh? We’ll see about that,” and 
Anthoin laughed again; but this time in that 
strange, demonical way that had so frightened An- 
derson and Holland some time before. It had its 
effect now upon these craven bullies, and their 
fright increased when he took a seat by the table, 
on which were glasses and a bottle of whiskey, and 
filled a glass with the fiery liquor, offered it to the 
spokesman and said, “Drink this Bill Bush, and 
maybe you will be more polite.” 

The men were all Americans of the lowest 
class, reared in the slums of the largest cities; and 


110 


ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


for reasons best known to themselves, prefered to 
remain out of the bounds of the United States; and 
even in France passed under assumed names. 

Bill Bush’s dark countenance became darker 
still when his name was called — the name he 
left behind when he crossed the Atlantic. “Who 
are you?” the ruffins demanded simultaneously of 
Anthoin, ag-ain g-laring- at him in an unpleasant 
manner. 

But Anthoin continued his blood curdling- 
laug-h and answered, “The Devil’s son-in-law, who 
knows more of you than you know of him. You 
don’t believe it,” he continued as they looked in- 
credulous. “Then I’ll convince you.” 

With that the fun beg-an. He hypnotized 
one after the other of them, releasing- each in 
time to see the antics of the other. Beg-in- 
ning- with Bill Bush, he made him dance a jig-, 
and afterward eat a newspaper, thinking- it was 
cake; another, he made stand on his head in a 
corner of the room; another became suddenly drunk 
and wanted to kiss Bill Bush, who he supposed was 
a pretty g*irl; the fourth imagined that he was 
walking on tacks with his bare feet, and his 
antics brought smiles to the faces of his fellow ser- 
vants, although they were nearly paralyzed from 
fright; the fifth and sixth fought with imaginary 
foes and were nearly exhausted when Anthoin re- 
leased them from his influence. “Now,” said he 
as they stared at him in wonder, “Shall I start all 
of you to shaking as though you had ague, and 
leave you so, until I go and see your master and 
return?” 

The very thought of it made them shake, and 


ZELDEK, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 


Ill 


very humbly they beg-ged him not to do so. “Very 
well,” he said, “Then do not interfere with me 
when I go to your master’s room, but always do 
as I tell you, and all will be well.” 

With that he arose from the chair in which he 
had been seated and went toward the stair which 
ascended from that room. Not a man attempted to 
stop him, but instinctively drew farther away as he 
passed. He had played a bold game and won; and 
fate must determine the play of the next card. 
Upon the stair he turned once to look at them, and 
hissed in his demon like voice the one word, “Re- 
member.” 

While the funny scene was being enacted in 
the room below, there was a scene of folly above. 

Robert Bouman had made several futile 
attempts to break the will of Marie. So he deter- 
mined to punish her in his diabolical way before 
forcing her into submission. Hid in the room was 
a young negress, one of the most depraved of her 
race, and a fit subject of the more depraved white 
man, who the rope of Judge Lynch would soon 
have put out of existence had he remained in 
America. At a low call from her master the girl 
rushed from her hiding place and struck the aston- 
ished Marie full in the face. It was not a hard 
blow, but it was enough to fire the blood in the 
white girl’s veins, so she defended herself vigor- 
ously when the negress attacked her again, which 
she speedily did. 

The villain’s eyes glistened as the fight pro- 
gressed. The negress was strong, but Marie was 
strong also. Sometimes they would clinch; and 
Bouman would applaud as they broke away, the 


112 


ZKlvDKE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


negress tearing- the white g-irl’s clothing-, and Marie 
with hands full of matted, wooly hair. The black 
face was bleeding- from many scratches, but the 
white face was not scarred. 

It was evidently not the black g-irl’s intention 
to bruise her antagonist as she had not struck her 
after the first assault, but contented herself with 
rending her clothing until the}^ were in tatters. 
Piece after piece she tore away until here and there 
the fair skin gleamed through the rags. Then the 
fight became more interesting for the spectator. 
His eyes shone more brilliantly and a flush of ex- 
citement spread over his face. Once the fighters 
clinched and fell to the floor together, each trying 
to get the mastery over the other; Marie hitting, 
scratching and biting; the other tearing and tear- 
ing. During the scuffle, the negress succeeded in 
removing her opponent’s shoes and tearing away her 
hose, to the great delight of Bouman. When the 
women regained their feet they stood facing each 
other for a few minutes, panting for breath, and then 
the fight began again. Poor Marie! In defending 
herself as she thought, she only did as her coward- 
ly abductor wished. Nothing could give him more 
pleasure than to see part after part of her fair body 
revealed; and when she stood as ere long she did, 
with her body bare above the waist, and the proba- 
bility of the few remaining shreds of clothing, be- 
ing soon torn from her, he could scarcely restrain 
himself from clasping her in his arms before the 
negress had completed her work. He enjoyed his 
folly, but little did he think what would be the 
price he would pay for it. 


zejldke, the devil’s daughter. 


113 


CHAPTER IV. 

RETRIBI7TIOI1T- 

As Henri Gailor neared the American’s Palace 
he came up with an old man who was going- in the 
same direction. He was so lost in his thoughts of 
Marie and her peril, that he would have passed 
without speaking, had not the old man called his 
name. Looking up he recognized a friend of his 
boyhood, whose wonderful stories told to him, when 
he sat by his side on a rude bench near the old 
man’s cottage door, stilled into his mind his first 
longings for fame. It had been two years since 
they had met and each had changed in many ways, 
but they could not fail to recognize each other^ — 
the love of the boy for the man and the man’s love 
for the boy were still in their hearts and kept 
their memory clear; through all of the changes 
of each, the other could see his friend of 
former years. It was a happy meeting mixed 
with pain, for each had his trouble on that 
day. The young man told of the kidnapping of 
his betrothed and the old man listened with clench- 
ed teeth — he hated the American with all the 
hatred of age^ — nearly a year ago his grand 
daughter, the last of his line, was abducted by the 
villain, and never recovered from the treatment re- 
ceived at his hands. 

He told Henri of it and added, “Yesterday she 
was buried by the side of her dead infant in the 
village grave yard. “What do you intend to do?” 


114 


ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK. 


he asked, wiping a tear from his eye. 

“To the American?” 

“Yes.” 

Gailor half uncovered the handle of a knife 
and a gesture told the rest. 

“That’s not so easily done my young friend,” 
said the old man. “When he stole my Jeannette 
I went there (pointing to the palace) to shed his 
heart’s blood. I knew the house like a book, I 
watched them build it, I knew of a room that 
could only be reached by a private stair and a 
sliding pannel, and I supposed that this would be the 
place in which he’d keep his victim. Not knowing 
how to find the pannel I decided to use the stair. 
But when I entered the room from which it leads I 
was attacked by several men, and when I recovered 
consciousness I was lying in yonder wood. When 
I managed to crawl to my home my grand daugh- 
ter was there, and the devil’s work had been 
done.” 

“Tell me how to find this stair,” cried Henri. 
“And I promise you. I’ll break passed his hirelings 
and avenge Jeannette as well as Marie.” 

The old man loved the ardent youth and would 
have warned him to stay away from the palace; but 
the word revenge was too sweet to his ears and his 
hatred of Robert Bouman wrangled in his bosom; so 
he informed his young friend how to find the stairs 
and the location of the room to which it lead, and 
bid him, “Strike once for me.” 

“I shall strike, never fear that!” whispered back 
the young man as he glided away through the grove 
to which they had come as they talked. 

The old man muttered something to himself as 


ZKI.DKK, thk devil’s daughter. 


115 


he turned away; and who shall sa}" if it was a 
blessing- on Henri Gailor or a curse for Robert Bou- 
man. 

* * * 

Marcus Anthoin paused before entering- the 
infamous den of Robert Bouman; a noise in the 
room below attracted his attention. From the 
position he occupied he could not see in the room 
he had just left; but stepping- noiselessly into a 
niche he listened, with strained ears, to what seem- 
ed to be the sig-ns of a strug-g-le. 

And indeed it was a strug-g-le, though an un- 
equal one — six men against a youth. Henri 
Gailor had burst into the midst of the still fright- 
ened ruffins, like an avalanche, he rushed passed 
them with the speed of the antelope and had placed 
a foot upon the first step of the stair when the 
dastards attacked him. Superhuman power seem- 
ed to have been given him, for he resisted their 
attack like a young lion. 

Grasping a chair he succeeded for a time in 
keeping his assailants at bay. Rush after rush 
they made, only to be beaten by the bold youth; 
then the chair was wrenched from his grasp and 
Bill Bush caught him by the throat, but with a cr}* 
the tough fell back in the arms of his companions, 
while the young man sprang up the stairs with a 
bloody knife in his hand. The fate of their comrade 
checked the rest of the attacking party for a 
moment, and when they rallied sufficiently to pur- 
sue, Henri was on the landing above. 

It was just at this time that Mrs. Bouman, who 
had formed the resolve to beard her husband in his 


116 


ZELDEE, THE DEViE’S DAUGHTER. 


den and save the unfortunate girl if she could, 
arrived at the sliding pannel and felt for the hidden 
spring. 

In the room Robert Bouman was in an ecticy 
of delight. Marie was standing before him per- 
fectly nude. At a word from him the negress was 
retreating to her hiding place, while Marie was 
blushing crimson as she realized for the first time 
her condition. 

“Oh my pretty one,’’ said the heartless wretch, 
preparing to take her in his arms. “What would 
vour lover of whom you spoke, say if he should see 
you now?” 

“He’d say, ‘take that you scoundrel,’ ” cried 
Henri Gailor bursting through the door and hurry- 
ing the already bloody knife in Bouman’s throat. 

Then the pursuers arrived at the head of the 
stairs and would have rushed upon the avenging 
youth, had not an old man stepped in front of them, 
pointing at the same time to the stairs and saying 
as he did so, “Go.” 

It was Marcus Anthoin, and filled with terror 
the servants fled. They had looked into the room 
and had seen their dying master, but had not seen 
the beautiful necked girl. Henri Gailor, himself, 
had caught but a glimpse of her as she was drawn 
through an opening in the wall made by a sliding 
pannel being moved by a queenly woman. Clara 
Bouman had saved the girl from the profaning 
eyes of the others, if not from those of her hus- 
band. 

“Young man,” said Anthoin entering the room, 
“You have done a deed you may well be proud of. 
It is to be hoped that you have rid the world of one 


ZKI.DKE, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


117 


of the blots of humanity. A man whose aim in 
life was no hig’her than that of the dogs of the 
desert.” 

“Rid the world of me?” Gurgled, rather than 
spoke the wounded man, while blood gushed from 
his mouth with every word. “No murderers you 
have not done it, nor will you; but I’ll rid the 
world of you.” He tried to rise as he spoke; but 
the effort was too much for him and he fell back 
exhausted. 

Anthoin laughed his low demonish laugh as 
he said, “You will, will you? But not yet.” 

The laugh sounded so horrible in the room with 
the dead or dying man that even Henri, who had 
given the fatal stab, if fatal it should prove, shud- 
dered and turned toward the door. But he summon- 
ed courage to turn back and say, “I must thank you 
Monsieur for your timely interference. But do you 
think you are shielding a murderer?” 

Marcus Anthoin had recognized the young man 
as the one he had seen earlier in the day, and 
remembered hearing one of the villagers say 
he was quite a Parisian. Connecting this with 
what, the mother of Marie had told him, 
and having seen Clara when she drew 
the blushing girl through the secret doorway, he 
gave the following answer to the young man’s 
query: 

“No Monsieur not a murderer, but aretributor. 
Who should avenge a fatherless girl’s wrongs if not 
her lover? And in avenging hers, you have paid the 
debt for many others. Go Monsieur and reclaim 
your sweetheart from Mme. Bouman, who 
is a lady inspite of her husband- I trust you will 


118 


ZKLDKK, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 


find Mademoiselle as unsullied as when you last saw 
her.” 

The young- man left the room but was recalled 
by Anthoin, who cautioned him to be on his g-uard, 
or the rascally servants of Robert Bouman mig-ht 
waylay him. 

“I have thoug-ht of that, ’’replied Henri. “And 
will be careful that they do not surprise me. I 
think the fate of one of the number will make 
them shy about attacking- me ag-ain.” 

We may as well mention here, that the youth 
was not molested by the servants and that he was 
kindly received by Mrs. Bouman, who turned over 
to his care his sweetheart Marie, who she had 
dressed in some of her own apparel. 

Robert Bouman died from the effect of his 
wound, and Henri Gailor was arrested for his mur- 
der. But the latter had made some influential friends 
at Lyons and in Paris, who came to his assistance; 
and as the American toug^hs were afraid to g-et 
too near the officers of the law and could not be 
found when wanted, he was acquitted after the 
evidence of Clara and Marie had been heard. 

A short while later, he and Marie were married. 
On their wedding- morn the bride received a lovel}^ 
silver cup from Mrs. Bouman, who had sold the 
American’s Palace, and left that day for America. 


ZEI^DEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTEK, 


X19 


CHAPTER V. 

X-OST, THE EIIIl-OSOPIlEn’'S STOISTE. 

Althoug-h Marcus Anthoin had caught a 
glimpse of the retreating negress, when the door 
was so suddenlj' opened, he said nothing of her to 
Gailor; but as soon as the young man had gone, he 
unceremoniously dragged her from her hiding 
place, and bid her go for a surgeon. The black 
wench was nearly frightened out of her wits, and 
was only too glad to leave the room. She descended 
the stairs in a reckless manner, at the risk of break- 
ing her neck, much to the amusement of Anthoin, 
who, when left alone with the wounded man, deter- 
mined to carry out the main object of his presence 
there. 

“The work must be done now or never,” he 
said to himself; and turning to Bouman, he brought 
his hypnotic power to bear upon him. It was easy to 
control the man’s will, as he was so weak from the 
loss of blood. 

“Can you hear what I say?” asked Anthoin. 

Bouman murmured, “Yes.” 

“Have you the philosopher’s stone in your pos- 
session?” was the next question. 

Again Bouman answered, “Yes.” 

“Where is it?” asked the interrogator. 

“In the right hand pocket of my pants,” was • 
the repl3^ 

A smile of satisfaction gleamed on the face of 
Anthoin as he commanded, “Give it to me,” 


120 


ZELDEE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


The wounded man could scarcely move, yet he 
obeyed the other’s will. Slowly his hand sought 
his pocket and brought forth a hard, smooth stone, 
the size of a filbert, which Anthoin grasped eager- 
ly as foot-steps were heard upon the stair. 

“Forget what you have done,” he hurriedly com- 
manded, releasing him from that influence, which 
he possessed to so rare a degree, as the surgeon, 
who had been hastily summoned by the men 
servants to attend their wounded comrade, appeared 
at the head of the steps, followed by the shaking 
negress and two of the men, who were less timid 
than the rest. 

Robert Bouman lay where he had fallen, and 
around him was a pool of blood. The surgeon 
looked at him and shook his head. 

“Place him on the bed,” he said. And the two 
men servants obeyed. With their aid he disrobed 
him, and then examined his wound. 

“He has lost too much blood, he can’t live,” he 
said, and stood back looking at the dying man. 

The words seemed to reach, and revive Bouman. 
He opened his eyes and regardless of the blood that 
frothed from his mouth, he shrieked in his weak 
voice, “I shall live, I wont die. No, I wont die. 
I’m not ready to die. Fife is too sweet to talk of 
dying; there is too much fun to be had. Where is 
Marie? Did you men see her? Wasn’t she pretty? 
Oh!” and here the blood drowned his words. He 
paused a moment to rest, and then began again. 
“Clara! Where is Clara? She use to come to my 
room, but she doesn’t come any more. She doesn’t 
love me now; I know I killed her love, for she did 
love me once. I have sinned against her; and now 


ZKI.DKE, the: DEVIIv’S daughter. 


121 


you say I am dying-. That is horrible; dying-, 
dying, dying, dying.” And he repeated the word 
until his voice died away in a whisper. 

Suddenly he half raised himself in bed, and 
cried, though his words were scarcely audible, 
“Bring me those pants you have just removed from 
me.” But no one moved to obey. “Don’t you 
hear?” he cried a little louder, and he looked from 
one to another. “Bring me those pants.” 

Up to this time Marcus Anthoin had remained 
standing where he was when the surgeon and the 
servants entered, but now he came forward and 
handed Bouman the article of apparel, for which he 
asked. 

The wounded man eagerly grasped the pants 
with his weak hands, and hissed through his set 
teeth, “You are the fellow that laughed at my 
suffering, curse you ! You are glad I am dying; 
but if I die. I’ll cheat the devil out of my soul. I 
have something here that will frighten him 
away.” 

Then he began to search in the pockets. One 
after the other he examined, and then over again 
and again. A frightened look came on his face as 
he turned the pockets inside-out, then not finding 
what he wanted, he cried, and this time succeeded 
in raising his voice to almost a screech, “Lost, the 
philosopher’s stone, lost,” and he fell back dead. 

The servants fled. The last words of their 
dying master had filled them with alarm. 

Marcus Anthoin followed, in a quiet, dignified 
way; but with a smile curling the corners of his 
mouth, as part of an old verse flashed through his 
mind: 

“Let him who treads on serpants heads, 
Beware the deadly fangs.” 


122 


ze:i.de:e, the devie’s daughter. 


CHAPTER VI. 

SAVED ERO^ TI2E PIT. 

The landlord of an inn, in a small villag-e in 
Austria, pointed to a man, who was walking- away 
from the hotel, in the direction of the mountains, 
and said, “Do you see that young man? He is 
going for a solitary ramble in the hills, but I have 
no idea he will ever return.” 

His quests looked up inquiring!}-, and one of 
• them asked, “Why?” 

“Well you see,” answered the proprietor, try- 
ing to look wise, “Not many Americans have 
stopped at my hotel; but of the few, two have act- 
ed very strangly. One of them, nearly thirty 
years ago, when I was a young man just starting 
into business, came here and stayed for a week. 
He was a peculiar man, with a strange expression 
in his eyes, as though they were fixed on some par- 
ticular object all the time; and his movements 
were mechanical, like a man walking while asleep. 
One morning, ’twas just such a day as this, he and 
several others, all my guests, started with two 
guides to visit the Devil’s Pit. He never came 
back, the rest returned without him, he had done 
what others had often been tempted to do, that is, 
had thrown himself into the pit. And now this 
young man, who arrived yesterday, acts like 
that other of thirty years ago; and has wandered 
away into the mountains. If he goes far, and g'ets 
near the Devil’s Pit, I feel sure, the devil will claim 


ZKlvDKE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


123 


another soul.” 

His listeners laug'hed at what they considered 
the old landlord’s superstition, and some one 
queried, “Did you lose anything- by the man not 
returning-?” 

“No,” was the reply. “His bag-g-ag-e was 
worth much more than the amount of his bill.” 

“And if this man does not come back, will you 
lose an3"thing-?” asked another. 

“No,” ag-ain replied the landlord. “He paid 
me for a week in advance, as he had no security.” 

“Then 3^ou will be the g-ainer if he doesn’t re- 
turn,” laug-hed a third. 

“Oh, but the poor man! The poor man!” said 
the innkeeper as he turned away. “I would 
rather he would live and I make less.” But, in his 
mind he was counting- how much he would g-ain if 
he never saw Dr. Anderson ag-ain. Such is the 
avarice of the human heart. 

Fifteen minutes later, acarriag-e, drawn by two 
horses with .flanks flecked with foam, dashed up to 
the door; and an old man with flushed cheeks, 
leaned far out of it, calling- loudly, “Landlord! 
Landlord!” 

“Who calls?” asked the innkeeper, appearing- 
at his door. 

The old man did not answer the question, but 
asked, “Are 3^ou the landlord?” 

“I am,” was the reply. 

The strang'er alig-hted from the carriag-e, and 
came near the proprietor, eying- him narrowly as 
thoug-h he would read his every thought. Then 
he asked, “Have 3^ou an American, named William 
Anderson, sta3dng at your hotel? 


124 


ZELDKE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


“William Anderson,” repeated the landlord, 
while a smile curled his lip. “Let me see — er — 
Why do you want to know?” 

Ag-ain the old man disreg-arded the query, for 
he comprehended at once that the doctor was there, 
or had been lately. “Tell him that a friend wishes 
to see him,” he said. 

“I cannot,” replied the landlord, the smile on 
his face broadening-. 

“And why not, pray?” 

“He is not here.” 

“Then, where is he?” 

“I do not know.” 

“When did you see him last?” demanded the 
old man, beg-inning- to g-et ang-ry. 

“Twenty minutes ag-o,” was the cool reply. 

“Then, where is he?” 

“I have said, ‘I do not know.’ ” 

The old man controlled his risihg- temper with 
an effort, “Look here, my g-ood man, it is very 
important that I should see Dr. Anderson as soon 
as possible. If you can tell me anything- of him, 
you will do him, as well as me, a g-reat favor.” 

“Why didn’t you say so before?” asked the 
innkeeper, who was making himself appear ridicu- 
lous by his efforts to be funny. He suddenly sober- 
ed up then, and said, “Well I’ll tell you all I know. 
Yesterday a man, g-iving- the name of Dr. William 
Anderson, came here without any bag-g-ag-e, paid 
me in advance, acted strang-ely all the time, walked 
the floor of his room last nig-ht instead of retiring-, 
refused to eat any breakfast this mornings and left 
about twenty minutes ag-o for a walk in the moun- 
tains. That is all I know of him.” 


ZKLDEE, THE devil’s DAUGHTEK. 


125 


The strang-er thanked the landlord for his 
information, and asked, “Did he g-o in the direc- 
tion of the Devil’s Pit?” 

The innkeeper was surprised, he had suppos- 
ed the man to be a strang-er in that section; but he 
spoke of the Devil’s Pit, as thoug-h he was familiar 
with the surrounding- country. 

“Not exactly,” the landlord replied. “But he 
could easily find his wa}- there from the direction 
he has taken.” 

The old man waited for no more, but hastily 
said a few words to his driver, and spring-ing- into 
the carriag-e with the ag-ility of. a man of thirty, he 
was driven rapidly away toward the hills. 

But as they neared the mountains the speed of 
the horses decreased — the road was more roug-h 
every succeeding- rod. The old man leaned from 
the carriag-e window and scanned the landmarks 
as he passed. Finally he called to the driver to 
stop; then he alig-hted and left the road by a nar- 
row mountain path, and climbed and climbed. The 
path was steep and dang-erous, but the old man 
seemed to know his way, and ere long emerged 
upon a small plateau. Turning to his left he 
hastened across it, and soon was on the verge of 
the Devil’s Pit. He gazed into the depths, expect- 
ing to see the body of the doctor lying at the bot- 
tom; but great was his joy to perceive only the 
white bones of a skeleton. “All that is left of the 
body of Merideth Kline,” he murmured as he turn- 
ed away. Raising his head he started, for coming 
toward him was a man with eyes set and walking 
in a mechanical way. The old man’s hand twitch- 
ed nervously as he placed it in his pocket. The 


126 


ZELDKE, THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER. 


man he saw advancing was Dr. William Anderson 
who was following the eyes of Zeldee, the Devil’s 
Daughter. 

He had not seen the old man, for he could not 
see anything except those terrible e)’’es, they were 
luring him on, as once they had lured Merideth 
Kline. For weeks he had been following them — 
from his home in Baltimore to New York, then 
across the Atlantic to Liverpool, then to London, 
from there to Havre and then to Paris, where he 
remained a week or two, following the eyes da}^ 
after day through the streets of the* gay capital; 
several times while there he came near to losing 
his life under the wheels of passing carriages, 
being rescued at the last moment by the 
gens d’ arms; and every time the eyes of Zeldee 
would flash with jealous disappointment. From 
Paris he traveled across the continent to Viena and 
from there to the village, of which we have spoken, 
near the eastern border of the empire. 

Not a moment’s rest had Zeldee given him, da}’ 
and night she had tormented him, by her form 
when he slept and by her eyes when he awoke. He 
had suffered much, and now she was leading him to 
the end of it, on earth at least. If her plan suc- 
ceeded the Devil’s Pit would claim another victim. 

But there was a sentinal by the pit, an old 
man with a keen eye, a clear mind and a strong 
arm, standing, waiting with a hand in his pocket, 
grasping a talisman. Nearer and nearer came the 
condemned man, for Zeldee had condemned him, 
nearer and nearer he advanced as the eyes retreat- 
ed, nearer and still nearer, until one step more 
w’ould have made him totter on the edge of the 


ZKLDEK, THE devil’s DAUGHTER. 


127 


pit. But that step was never taken, some one 
seized him by the arm and forced something* into 
his hand. Immediately the eyes vanished and he 
stag'gered back from the yawning* abyss; he felt 
faint and weary and would probably have fallen 
had not a strong* arm supported him. 

After a few moments rest he looked at the 
something* in his hand, it was hard and smooth, 
about the size of a filbert. While he was wonder- 
ing* what it was, a voice said in his ear, “It is the 
philosopher’s stone.” The voice sounded familiar, 
and looking* up, he found himself face to face with 
Marcus Anthoin, who had saved him from the pit, 
and robbed Zeldee of her reveng*e. 

Our tale is nearly told. We might go on and 
on, recording the events in the lives of Anderson 
or Anthoin, either would be interesting, but we 
are telling a tale of a soul, and that soul, “The 
Devil’s Daughter.” And now that she has lost her 
power over the other characters of our narrative 
we can no more determine her movements and 
hence must end the story. But before we do so, 
for the benefit of the reader, we will tell in a brief 
way, what we would tell in detail, if it was pro- 
longed. 

We would tell that Anthoin and Anderson left 
Austria together and were travelling companions 
until they reached Paris; here they separated, An- 
thoin remaining in the City of Fashion and Ander- 
son crossing to the British Isles and thence to the 
United States of America. 

We would tell that Mrs. Edna Flemming, the 
gay and dashing young widow, had married a 
rising* young lawyer of Baltimore, who was noted 


128 ZKLDKK, the devil's daughter. 

for his fastness and love of spending- money, three 
months after her futile attempt to facinate Dr. 
Anderson. And that they separated in a year, 
she taking- to the stag-e and he — well — he doing- 
about the same as ever. 

We would tell that Aunt Dinah, the old 
neg-ress, had returned to the elder Flemming-s, 
saying- in her quaint way, ’‘Bless my soul, if I’s 
g-wying- to lib wid a woman dat forgits Marse 
Hug-0 in nine months. 

We would tell, how Dr. Anderson arrived at 
Baltimore in due time, to the g-reat delig-ht of his 
many friends, who informed him of the report that 
he had over drawn his account at the bank and then 
skipped; and how he immediately repaired to the 
bank and adjusted matters with the bank officials; 
and then how he searched for the little lady, who 
had captivated his heart, and who the fiery eyes of 
Zeldee had driven from his mind, when he went on 
his mad trip to Europe, but who he now remember- 
ed ag-ain and loved more than ever. 

And then we would tell, how sweet Gertrude . 
reg-ained her health and streng-th breathing- the 
northern Virg-inia country air; and how one morn- 
ing- in the latter part of June, when the sun shone 
brig-ht and hotly, scorching- the verdue and choking- 
the music of the little song-sters in the trees back 
into their throats, she and her young- cousin Annie, 
from the farm house, wandered down a shady lane 
and then by a path, they had made themselves 
throug-h the woods, to a quiet nook on the banks of 
a small riverlet. It was their favorite retreat on 
those hot sultry morning-s. They could use the 
greatest freedom there, for no one knew of the place 


ZEIvDKE, the devil’s DAUGHTER. 


129 


except themselves or if they did, they did not care to 
visit it. So the two g-irls enjoyed the beauty of the 
shady, green spot all alone. It was bordered on 
three sides by thick foliag’e, and in front by a deep 
g’lassy bit of water that afforded an excellent bath- 
ing- pool. A short way out the water tumbled, and 
broke itself into foam upon the rocks, but in the 
pool it was still, and often would the g-irls, feeling- 
secure in their quiet retreat, lay aside their clothing- 
and enjoy a dip in the cool stream. 

But on the day of which we would tell, there 
was an intruder upon their privacy, thoug-h the}- 
knew it not, and he did not intend to intrude. It 
was Dr. William Anderson, who was roaming- in 
that section in hopes of stumbling- on a clue to the 
whereabouts of the woman he loved, for he had 
heard she was somewhere in the neig-hborhood. 
He was not exactly in this shady dell, but was 
where he could command a full view of it. When 
he saw them appear his heart leaped with joy. 

•‘Found at last,” he said to himself, and would 
have g-one forward and have spoken to Gertrude, 
but, like all unavowed lovers he was timid. 

“Several months ag-o,” he thoug-ht, “She may 
have had a passing- fancy forme, but it may be differ- 
ent now, and I may be unwelcome; but I shall feast 
my eyes upon her for awhile, she surely can’t object 
to that.” 

But he saw more than he barg-ained for. 

The g-irls were warm with their walk and knew 
the quickest way to cool themselves. So Anderson 
watched them disrobe, they being- unconscious of 
the eyes peering- at them, and plung-e into the 
stream. He felt g-uilty of treason to the fair Ger- 


130 


ZEI.DEK, the DEViE’S daughter. 


trude, the other he had scarcely seen, but he was 
fascinated and could not tear himself from the spot. 
Who would not have done was he did, with Youth 
and Beauty g’amboling’ before him like two nymphs 
of the wood? Finally with a mig’hty effort, he 
tore away and crept cautiously through the under- 
growth. 

When, a year later, he married Gertrude, for we 
would tell of his marrying her, he told her of his 
adventures with Zeldee, and after giving a descrip- 
tion of her he added: 

“She was indeed beautiful, but her brazen looks 
and immodesty outweighed the beauty.” 

“I imagine it did,” she said. 

He smiled at her words, and asked, “Did you 
ever bathe in a rivelet near where you stayed in 
Virginia, a year ago?” 

A blush was her answer and she asked, “Why?” 

“Because, I saw you once,” he said. And then 
he told her all about it. 

Her blush deepened while he talked and when 
he finished, she shook her dainty fist at him and 
said. “You naughty, naughty man. How dared 
you do it?” 

“How dared I?” he asked, speaking her words. 

“It was enough to make me dare anything; for ” 

and his voice became low and tender. “You were 
much fairer than Zeldee,” 


TWO YEARS AFTER. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE EE-flLTH OE l^ARCTJS AHTHOIIT- 

Deak George: — 

One year agfo I seated myself, with pen in hand, 
to put on paper the events in my life that pertain 
to the Devil’s daug-hter; but instead, I wrote a let- 
ter to Marcus Anthoin. Had I not done so, my 
story would have g’one forth to the public, and when 
too late, I perhaps, would have reg'retted it. Now 
the story will never be written, at least not by me. 

I told you in, a former letter, of Zeldee’s attempt- 
ed reveng-e, and how the old man, whose acquaint- 
ance we formed on that nig-ht of wind and snow in 
your Southern city, had saved my life. Well, I 
corresponded with him at intervals after his return 
to America and found him an interesting- corre- 
spondent, thoug-h given a little to melancholy, 
sometimes writing an entire letter in a wierd, pa- 
thetic strain. 

I do not know why I wrote to him instead of 
writing* my tale, unless, in thinking of him I could 
not resist the temptation of dropping him a few lines. 


132 


ZELDEE, the DEViE’S DAUGHTER. 


Letter writing-, as you know, is mj principal occu- 
pation now; for with that marvelous stone in my 
possession it is not necessary for me to do anything- 
to earn my daily bread. So I do not follow my pro- 
fession any long-er, but live in blissful idleness, en- 
joying the companionship of my wife. In reply to 
my letter Anthoin wrote me the following: 

“My Dear William: — 

It was an agreeable surprise to receive a letter 
from you after three months of silence. Believe 
me when I sa}^ I have thought of you night and 
day during that time. So you are going to write a 
tale of your adventures with Zeldee? I know it will 
be interesting, but I have one favor to ask of you if 
you still intend to do so, that is, that you will wait 
just one year before you begin it. I know when 
you have written it you will have it published, and 
for reasons, which you already know, I would not 
like everything you would have to tell, to be known 
to the public while I am living — one year from now 
all will be over; one year from now the grim reaper, 
Death, will cut me down, gather me in his bundle of 
sheaves and carry me away; then you can tell your 
story without causing me any inconvenience, and if 
men praise me I will know it, and if they condemn 
me I will know it not. 

My health has been failing rapidly since last I 
wrote to you, and I am now a physical as well as a 
mental wreck. But nevertheless, I am doing what 
I have asked you not to do, writing a tale of some 
of our adventures. I do not intend that it shall get 
in print, however, but will address it to you so that 
you will get it when I am dead. That will be one 


ZELDEE, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


133 


year from now. With the last streng-th of my tired 
soul I will visit you in your room, when the end 
comes, you may surely expect me. So from now till 
then g-ood-bye. I shall not write to you ag'ain 
until I write my last letter. 

Yours truly, 

Marcus Anthoin.” 

It has been a year since that letter was written, 
and it makes me sad as I copy it here. I have writ- 
ten to him since then, but have received no reply. 
How he’ll visit me when the end comes I know no 
more than what he said in his letter. 

^ ^ ^ 

The hour has passed, Marcus Anthoin is no more. 
As I penned the words, “Than what he said in his 
letter,” a strang-e sensation came over me. To 
shake the feeling- off I raised my head, and there, 
standing- in the center of the room, was the one of 
whom I had been writing-. He was g-reatly chang-- 
ed, but yet I knew him, his face was pale and wan, 
his hair was more white, if that could be, than when 
last I saw him, and his eyes were sunken and had a 
set glassy stare in them. He opened his thin, 
bloodless lips and spoke: 

“Dr. Anderson,” he said, “I am going on that 
long, long journey and may never return, good bye.” 

I tried to speak, but could not utter a word. I 
arose from my chair and extended my hand, then 
my light which had been burning low, suddenly 
went out, and my power of speech returned. 
“Marcus Anthoin,” I cried, but there was no 
reply. “Marcus Anthoin,” again I called, but still 
no reply. I struck a match, relighted the 


134 


ZKLDKK, the DKViE’S DAUGHTER. 


lamp and looked about the room, there was no 
one in it except mj wife and myself. She was 
sweetly sleeping*, with her fair face resting on her 
pillow, as she had been before my light went out; 
I examined the doors and windows, but they were 
all securely fastened as I had barred them; then I 
looked at the floor, in the centre of the room, where 
I had seen him stand, and on the carpet I saw a 
small drop of blood. I gazed at it for a moment 
and then I knew how Marcus Anthoin had visited 
me when he was dead. 

Dear George: — 

I begin again after three days. This morning’s 
mail brought me two letters and a paper in a pack- 
age, together with a batch of manuscript. I 
glanced at the paper first and my eyes fell upon a 
marked paragraph headed — “Found Dead in His 
Room” — it read as follows: 

“Laurence Mayo, an eccentric old man was 

found dead in his room at No. 

St. early this morning. When found his head 
was resting on a table where he had been writ- 
ing. By his head was a bundle of papers and a 
letter, both addressed to Dr. William Anderson, of 
Baltimore, Md. The coroner was called, but deem- 
ed an inquest unnecessary, as it was evident, the man 
died of old. age.” 

The letters were, one from the man in whose 
house Marcus Anthoin, or Laurence Mayo, as he call- 
ed himself, roomed, describing the position in which 
the dead man was found, and stating that he for- 
warded therewith the bundle of papers and the 
letter addressed to me, and also sent me a daily 


ZEIvDEK, THE DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


135 


paper g-iving- an account of Mayo’s death. The 
other was the one from poor Anthoin. ’It was writ- 
ten just before his death. I will copy it for your 
beneiit. It ran: — 

“Dear Dr. Anderson: 

The time has come. When you receive this I 
will be no long-er on earth. Even now the icy hand 
of death is resting on my brow; so what I have to 
write I must write briefly. I have sealed the manu- 
script of the autobiog-raphy I have been writing-, 
and addressed it to you; in writing- your story, if 
you still intend to write it, use what part of it you 
think best and destroy the remainder. I wish you 
much success; and if your story is ever published I 
hope the readers will condemn me no more than I 
deserve. As I promised in my letter of a year ag-o, 
I will visit you, in your room, ere my weary soul is 
caug-ht by that irresistible power and carried to the 
Valley of the Shadow of Death. This may be my 
last journey throug-h the darkness. My name may 
have been called while I was truant from my post, if 
so, it will never be called ag-ain, and I will be no 
more on earth. Then a long-, long- farewell. Eter- 
nity is a long- time Doctor. Eternity is a long- time. 
— Yours in Death, Marcus Anthoin.” 

I could not help but shed a tear as I finished 
reading. He, who I had once called a murderer, 
had proved a true friend, and now he was dead. I 
read his autobiography, and through it all ran a 
strain of melancholy so natural with the man; but 
as I have determined not to write my stor3% I will 
preserve it as a keepsake from him. 

My Dear George, I have written quite enough, 


136 


ZELDEK, the DEVIE’S DAUGHTER. 


and will be glad to receive a letter from you at an 
early date. You must forgive me for letting poor 
Anthoin’s sadness touch my letter, but I am sure 
what I have written will interest you. With best 
wishes. I remain, Sincerely yours, 

WiELiAM Anderson. 


CHAPTER II. 

ZEI-DSE, THE EEVII-’’S EiLUaUTEK- 

BEING AN EXTRACT FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. 

GEO. HOLLAND. 

June 6th, 18 — . Today I received a letter from 
my esteemed friend Dr. William Anderson; and 
ever since reading it, I have been thinking of the 
queer old man who was his subject. I had the 
pleasure, I suppose I may call it a pleasure, of see- 
ing and talking to this old man on one occasion; 
that was between two and three years ago, but I re- 
member the event as distinctly as though it was yes- 
terday. Anderson was with me at the time, and 
through a long, stormy night in midwinter we list- 
ened to one of the most marvelous tales of which I 
have ever heard. It made a deep impression on me 
at the time, but the feeling soon wore off, and I 
looked upon the narrator as a mad-man, and his tale 
but the raving of one. 

A few weeks later the news reached me, that 
the old man had been arrested, tried and convicted 


ZELDEE, the DEViE’S DAUGHTEK. 


137 


of the murder of his wife; and then a short while 
later, I heard of his mysterious escape from prison 
on the eve of the execution day. But still I be- 
lieved him mad, until my friend, the doctor, a few 
months after his return home, wrote of his experi- 
ence with the wonderful Zeldee. Then I beg-an to 
realize that there was some truth in what Marcus 
Anthoin had told; for William Anderson is too bril- 
liant a man to be deluded by a phantom. Another 
thing- that influenced- me in this direction was that 
it had influenced Anderson to accept the Christian 
belief, whereas, before he had denied it. 

After perusing- the letter, I received today, I 
fell to thinking of what might or might not be, and 
almost wished I had the knowledge of the other 
world that Anthoin claimed to have. With these 
thoughts in my mind, I left home late this after- 
noon and wandered down town. In my abstraction 
I boarded the first electric car that I saw, it chanced 
to be a red one, and ere my lit of musing ended, I 
found myself at the Avondale Park. 

That is a lovely place, with its large cool 
springs, lovely flowers and shady mountain side. I 
have often been there and always enjoyed its grand- 
eur. Today it seemed more beautiful than ever. 
As I sat on a bench musing, my attention was at- 
tracted to a fat, chubby woman with a pleasant face, 
who was playing with a pretty little child, who she 
called “Ernardine.” By the side of the lady, and 
playing with the child also, stood a poetic looking 
man. He had light, sandy hair and mustache; and 
his face was one of those good, honest ones that I 
always love to look at. It was easy too see, by 
their happiness, that it was a well mated man and 


138 


ZKlvDEE, The devil’s daughter. 




wife, with their only child. As I watched them, a 
couple also man and wife, I presume, sauntered up to 
them. I did not particularly notice but one of the 
new arrivals. She was a tall, dark woman with 
black, searching- eyes, that made me feel, when I 
looked at them, like I was looking- into the eyes of a 
serpent. The fat, chubby woman instinctively 
drew her child closer to her side; and when she 
spoke, there was a sound of loathing- in her voice. 
The dark woman made some lig-ht remark and 
laug-hed, and to me it seemed I had heard that laug-h 
before. I wondered then, and I wonder now, if the 
soul that tormented Anthoin and Anderson had 
broken away from hell ag-ain, to inhabit a body from 
which a soul had fled, and if this dark, dang-erous 
looking- w’om an, was “Zeldee, the Devil’s Daug- liter. ” 


The End. 


m 


I 


"'NT nnoy rec»q 

AUG 10 1898 


LIBRPRY OF CONGRESS 



0 002 191 681 P C 



